


in all of the lives we are

by saramir



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Alternate Timelines, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Depression, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Episode: s04e06 A Timeline and Place, Episode: s04e09 The Serpent, Fillory (The Magicians), Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Polyamory, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saramir/pseuds/saramir
Summary: Quentin uses art therapy and memories of their fifty years together to cope with the loss of Eliot, the fight to save him, and the aftermath.





	in all of the lives we are

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant through 4x09 / incorporates a few elements from 4x10, but that’s really where it diverges since I wrote most of this before 4x10 aired.
> 
> On a personal note: I can’t believe it’s only been two months since I finally got into The Magicians, and I can’t emphasize enough how important this show has been to me lately. It truly arrived just in time—I even watched The Scene in 4x05 the same day I was laid off from my job, so sobbing over that was cathartic in a lot of ways. 
> 
> Historically, I’ve mostly written RPF, so writing characters who are already fictional has been such a fascinating process that I’ve absolutely adored, and hope to do more. Writing this fic (my first in five years!) has been vital to my current project of Get Sarah to Tap Back into Her Creative Energy 2k19, so I’m incredibly grateful to The Magicians and this fandom for being a catalyst for that.
> 
> Thanks to J for telling me to show more, to Kt for telling me to theme more, and both of you for always being such exceptional betas who drive me to be a better writer. 
> 
> Title from the Bob Hicok poem below.

_”Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"_  
_somewhere else I am saying_  
_"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you_  
_in each of the places we meet_

_in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying_  
_and resurrected._  
_When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,_  
_in each place and forever.”_

_— Bob Hicok,[Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem](http://www.pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm)_

 

________________________________________________________________

 

Quentin stops by an art supplies store on his way back to the apartment. 

It’s the first time in hours that he’s been alone with his own thoughts. He’s not sure what pulls him into the store, but after getting the one-two punch of mourning his dad all afternoon, followed by the Monster’s news about Eliot, he deserves some aimless time to himself. 

He wanders the aisles, not really looking at anything, the colors and textures bursting and blooming in his periphery—until his eyes catch on a display of chalk pastels. 

Quentin buys two of the biggest packs they sell, plus three sketchbooks, before he can even think about why. 

Buying art supplies—it feels like such a normal thing to do, he thinks, as he leaves the store, plastic bag in hand. Almost like he’s just a person with normal person problems, instead of Quentin Coldwater, a magician and former king who’s most Normal Person Problem right now is dealing with a dead dad. Not even Eliot’s death feels normal or—

 _Or real, even_ , he thinks. It’s the same stupid part of his brain that hopes for things that never come. 

His fingers twist and stretch the handle of the plastic bag. _Operation: Save Eliot_ is over—he needs to remember that. 

He can’t fix what’s not even there to be fixed anymore, but at least he can go create something small and comforting with these pastels to help him cope right now.

The anticipation makes him think of the escapes of his youth: drawing his D&D characters even when he had nobody to play with, drawing the map of Fillory underneath the table with Julia, drawing Fillory any chance he could get. His dad had always been so supportive of that creative outlet. Sometimes, the two of them would sit quietly together all evening, Quentin drawing yet another scene from Fillory, his dad working on yet another model airplane. 

Even later, long after Quentin had drifted away from his hobby and was deciding on his major in undergrad, his dad would tell Quentin he should study art instead of philosophy, that he should _get out of that head of yours, Curly Q, and make something concrete with your hands._

Quentin didn’t listen. He never really got into art again. 

Except, that’s not the whole truth, is it? He _has_ made art more recently than his youth: every damn day, for fifty years, in another life that was also kind of this life. 

_Fuck._

He’s been trying to suppress these memories—as if losing Eliot isn’t painful enough with _this_ timeline’s memories; he doesn’t need to make it even harder. 

It’s too late. The flood has begun: the Mosaic, Eliot, their family with Arielle and Ted—and their record-keeping tactic of drawing each new mosaic pattern in pastel pointillism. 

He’s shocked he makes it back to the apartment without getting hit by a car or tripping down an open cellar door or hyperventilating on the sidewalk. 

When he walks into the apartment, Julia is in the kitchen cooking something. 

“Carbonara!” she says, raising a wooden spoon in greeting. Her voice is warm, a little proud of herself. "I figured now is totally a time to load up on carbs, right? And I haven't cooked in awhile.” She tips the spoon to her chin, eyes cast down in thought. “It's good to have something...uncomplicated to focus on for a minute.” 

"Yeah," Quentin says, nodding. "It is." He forces a smile. "Thanks, Jules." 

She puts on her mock concerned face. "Oh—oh no, you thought I was cooking for both of us?" She twirls a finger in the direction of the boiling pasta. "This? This is all mine, Q. I am all set to eat my bodyweight in pasta tonight." 

Quentin huffs a laugh for real, but it instantly morphs into his eyes welling, a tightness in his chest. He swallows, trying to disperse a knot in his throat. His knuckles tighten on the handles of the art supply bag. This is why he needs to stay numb and even: any emotion, even the positive ones, drag him into danger of breaking down, and he just—can’t right now. Not until everything is over, one way or another. 

"Hey, hey." Julia’s voice is soft and concerned as she sets down the spoon and approaches him. "Today must've been tough, huh?" 

It takes Quentin a moment to realize she's referring to packing up his dad's old things. She doesn’t know about Eliot. 

“I’m not really ready to talk about it right now, Jules." He tilts his head in the direction of the bedrooms. "I'm going to go and just...go. Never know how long the Monster will be gone, so I just want to savor my alone time for a little while, yeah?”

"Of course.” Julia gently touches his arm. “Okay. Well, there _will_ be pasta in the fridge for you if you get hungry.” 

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” he says, and slips away. 

Opening the box of pastels feels like a ritual, like it’s one part of a spell he’s preparing. The chalk smell hits him like a gut punch as he sits down at the desk in his new room. 

He reverently runs his fingers across the silky, fresh edges of every color, the ache of Mosaic memories settling into his nerves. Now that he’s started remembering, he doesn’t want to stop. 

Picking up a blue pastel, he takes a deep breath, lets it out, and opens to a fresh page. 

________________________________________________________________

It’s like he has muscle memory even though this version of these muscles never lived a whole life of laying down tiles and keeping pastel mosaic records. 

That’s what’s happening, though, these memories tactile and real and the warmest sense of home that Quentin’s ever felt. 

Drawing them feels almost like being controlled by magic or drugs, or even that sort of blind lust of really good sex: His conscious mind turns off, and he’s running purely on instinct, something else guiding him through each pastel rendering of every mosaic design that pops back into his head. His hand can barely keep up with the memories. 

First, there’s a sunrise. Then there’s a sunset. Stars, so many stars, cascading across the page. There’s Earth’s moon in its phases, and the Fillorian moons in theirs. 

There’s the sunrise redux, where Eliot had said they needed to think outside the box and make the sun purple, the haze around it greens and blues. 

There’s the entire month they spent on animal portraits, until Eliot had had enough. 

 

_“Q, somehow I doubt ‘the beauty of all life’ is a cat.”_

_“Well, that depends who you ask—I’m sure cats would disagree.”_

 

There’s the time, a couple years in, that Eliot had referred to as their Blew Period. 

 

_“Okay. I think we did it.” Quentin reclines back on his elbows, legs stretching across the Mosaic. “I think that’s every sexual position we could possibly represent in mosaic form.”_

_“Is it though?” Eliot prowls closer to him, knees straddling one of Quentin’s legs. He gives Quentin’s chest a purposeful push to lie him flat, then hovers over him, one hand on Quentin’s inner thigh, the other pinning his fanned-out hair against the tiles. “I’m sure we can think of one more. We should really be thorough here…”_

 

It feels strange to hold multiple sets of memories in his head: there’s himself, and there’s himself in what he thinks of as Fillory Before. There’s even the mundanity of being Brian—the only time in his whole fucked life that Quentin got to actually run away from himself. 

(He can’t even fathom what it’d be like in his head if he also somehow had the memories of his first 39 life loops. No wonder Fogg drinks.) 

It’s late—like, the kind of late that could also be early—by the time Quentin looks up from drawing. His hands are covered in chalk colors. He’s already halfway through one of the sketchbooks. He’s surprised the Monster hasn’t shown up yet. 

His stomach is rumbling, and he’s thirsty, so he sneaks out for carbonara leftovers, then hurries back to his room, eating the pasta cold so he can get back to drawing as quickly as possible. 

He can’t get out of his head this one day almost a year into their time in Fillory Before: Quentin had slept in late, hungover from some sort of grape-like fruit they’d fermentation-charmed into a delicious and absurdly potent wine the night before. 

Quentin picks up a red pastel and remembers. 

 

_When Quentin emerges from the cabin, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he finds Eliot crouched over the edge of the mosaic, putting the final touches on a new design._

_“Hey, sorry I slept so long, I—” Quentin scrunches his eyebrows as he comes to a halt behind Eliot. “Is that— supposed to be Margo?”_

_Eliot had used the earth tone tiles to evoke the face of his best friend._

_“Well,” Eliot says, voice soft and wistful. He stretches to lay down the final red tile to complete her lips. His fingers linger there against the dusty ceramic. “She’s the beauty of all_ my _life.”_

_Quentin kneels beside him and gently touches Eliot’s shoulder._

_Eliot doesn’t look at him, clenching his jaw, eyes wet with tears he’s not letting fall. “Do you ever wake up and just…” His voice is low and angry. He clears his throat and blinks rapidly. Quentin watches his eyelashes flutter, damp and beautiful. “Do you ever wake up and not care about this fucking quest anymore?”_

_“At least once a week,” Quentin says._

_Eliot huffs a sad laugh, lifting his fingers from the tile. He drops to his knees and teeters over against Quentin, head dropping against his shoulder. Quentin lets his arm fall around Eliot’s back, hand resting against his waist._

_“Sometimes I wake up and I just want to be selfish, Q. Sometimes I want to go back—key or not—and be with my_ goddamn _Bambi again.”_

_“I know,” Quentin murmurs, swiping his free hand across Eliot’s sweaty forehead, orange-yellow pastel smudge wiping away with it. Quentin looks down at the pastels on both their hands: these hands usually nimble only for magic, now also rough with the edges of months of manual labor._

_“Hey, at least you have me.” Quentin’s aiming for casual, but it comes out almost like a question._

_“And thank fuck for that.” Eliot tangles their hands together, voice fierce and low. “Q, you're the only reason I don't feel like this every day.”_

 

Quentin’s hands are trembling by the time he finishes that one, and yep, there’s Margo, a pointillist pastel face on the paper in front of him. 

It suddenly occurs to Quentin that he’s basically gotten himself into art therapy to double down on not only grief over his dad and Eliot, but probably some pretty heavy PTSD he’ll live with once his time with the Monster is said and done. Well, if he does live. He gets that, in a distant way. 

He’d only been hanging on because he had a singular focus: Save Eliot. He can usually keep it together as long as he has something to focus on, something to solve, something that needs his whole attention and not a bit less than that.

But now? Eliot’s gone, and magic might as well be gone still, and he can’t rely on cigarettes as his only stress relief. It’s good to have something new to focus on instead, something to do with his hands that isn’t half-failed magic. 

_Keep it together, bitch,_ it feels like the Margo Mosaic drawing is telling him. _Keep it the fuck together, at any cost._

________________________________________________________________

Quentin doesn’t sleep. He’s exhausted in this soul-deep way that he’s frankly sick of being these past few years, but he just—can’t. When he sleeps, if he’s actually able to sleep, it’s all nightmares and waking up with sleep paralysis and remembering everything all over again. No thanks. 

So, tonight, he keeps drawing. He lets himself remember another time before all this, even as dawn light is rising through the tall windows of the apartment. 

This drawing isn’t even a mosaic, just the scratch of black chalk on paper as he scribbles harder and harder, trying to see if the chalk will break through to the other side. 

 

 _One morning, in Fillory Before, not long after he and Eliot have started sleeping together (or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing as they’re totally_ not overthinking it _), Quentin wakes up feeling…numb, is probably the best word for it._

_He hasn’t taken meds for a few years at this point, and it’s one of those times when he doubts the wisdom of that decision. A decision that Brakebills made for him, but a decision he wanted to believe in nonetheless._

_Magic and belonging can’t cure depression any more than a good day could cure depression. Or even a pretty good year and change, all things considered, here at the Mosaic with Eliot. His depression always creeps back, his biggest fears and doubts seeping in, and he’s left immobile on their bed, trying to muffle the sunlight and nature sounds by stuffing his head under the pillows and patchwork quilt._

_He remembers how one of his old therapists used to remind him that focusing your attention on a complex task helps quiet the anxious brain trash and give yourself a way out from a depressive do-nothing state, at least temporarily._

_So, he knows that working on the puzzle would probably help at a time like this; it gives him a purpose. That’s one of the main things that has kept his moments of frustration from getting out of control this past year. He should get back to that purpose._

_Just five more minutes._

_Some time way longer than five minutes passes (they don’t actually have a clock, okay) and Quentin hasn’t moved at all._

_Eliot appears, the door creaking shut behind him._

_There’s the other thing that’s been keeping Quentin going here: Eliot._

_“Hey sleepyhead,” Eliot says, voice teasing. The bed dips beside Quentin, and Eliot’s hand rests on his shoulder through the quilt. It’s Quentin’s wooden shoulder, so he can’t actually feel it, aside from the tips of Eliot’s fingers where they overlap onto the part of Quentin’s arm that’s skin and nerve endings. “Time to get back to the puzzle. I made coffee and already sorted the tile piles.”_

_Quentin slowly peers up from between two of the pillows. “Coffee?”_

_“Well.” Eliot tilts his head with his usual casual grace, drawing out the word. “Not ‘coffee’, per se. Something sort of between tea and coffee while being neither. It’s that Fillorian caffeinated leafy thing that Arielle brought us last time she stopped by. If you try really hard…you can very nearly, hardly, totally tell the difference.”_

_Quentin snorts._

_Eliot smiles brightly at him, pleased to have gotten a reaction. He tucks Quentin’s messy bed hair behind his ears, and murmurs, “C’mon, Coldwater, let’s go.”_

_Quentin’s heart aches at the tender gesture, at the rough-warm texture of Eliot’s fingers brushing across his skin._

_It makes him wonder if it’s really all that wise to be doing this Totally Not Overthinking It Thing together._

_Not counting the emotional hangover that was the Threesome That Shall Not Be Named (or as Margo called it once: That Time We T-Boned), it’s not like Eliot had ever tried to be with Quentin before the Mosaic. Neither had Quentin, but that’s mostly because Quentin had been hyper-focused on Alice. Of course it’s just his luck that when Quentin finally lets his feelings for Eliot blossom, it’s under fucking magical circumstances that could change at any moment._

_What would be worse: taking up their whole lives trying to finish the puzzle, or finishing the puzzle tomorrow? At this point, either way, Quentin would lose something._

_“M’not ready,” Quentin mumbles and burrows back under the covers._

_“It’s mid-day. It’s long past when we usually get started.”_

_“It doesn’t matter.”_

_“The fuck it doesn’t,” Eliot says, annoyance spiking._

_Quentin sighs and shoves the pillows off his head, rolling onto his back to face Eliot. “We’ll never finish it, El. Every time I try to fix anything, it just makes it worse, so why would this be any different?”_

_Eliot’s face shifts into one of careful, diplomatic patience. “Listen—Q. I’m no stranger to being a fuck-up, but you—_ we’ve _got this.”_

_Quentin lifts himself up onto his elbows and rolls his eyes. “You don’t really believe that, do you? We’re going to waste the rest of our lives here, El.”_

_Eliot flinches back like he’s been slapped._

_But Quentin doesn’t shut up, driven by the shit he’s been dwelling on all morning. “Even if we get the key eventually, it’s not like we can go back and—and pick up our lives again like nothing happened. We are going to lose our lives to this puzzle, and I just—excuse me if that makes me a little depressed for one fucking morning.”_

_Eliot’s whole face shuts down. “I’m done with this pity party. Join me outside when you’re ready to get back to our_ life-wasting _quest.”_

_He stomps out, their little wooden door smacking shut behind him._

_Quentin groans and rolls over to bury his face in the pillows again. One of them smells like Eliot. Dammit. He knows he has to get up. He knows it, but it takes several minutes more to convince his body of that._

_He walks out of the cabin, still adjusting the belt on his trousers. Eliot is crouched next to the stacks of tiles, focusing on gathering their mosaic record-keeping pages that must’ve scattered._

_“Well,” Quentin says, trying to get his attention. “I’m here.”_

_Eliot’s eyes dart up to him, his expression twisted in distaste._

_“Look, it’s not like we haven’t talked about this before,” Quentin blurts. “You’ve said so yourself that sometimes you wish you could get back to our lives from before.”_

_Eliot doesn’t say a word, just gets up and walks past Quentin._

_“We could be here, like, literally for the_ rest _of our lives,” Quentin says, still fiddling with his clothes, “so I don’t really think it’s fair of you to get mad at me for being a little upset about that.”_

_“We could be done tomorrow, for all you know.” Eliot’s voice is tense behind him._

_Quentin sits down in their chair next to the mosaic. He can’t look Eliot directly in the eye._ And what then? _he wants to say._ If we finish the puzzle tomorrow, what happens to _us_?

 _“We can’t just throw away all this_ time _we’ve invested,” Eliot pleads, straightening the pages. He stomps across the Mosaic and slams the stack of pages onto their worktable, muttering with all the bitterness Quentin hadn’t realized was in him, “You want to live your life—live it here.”_

_“What is that supposed to mean?” Quentin says to Eliot’s back, suddenly wanting nothing more than for Eliot to look at him right now._

_“You know exactly what that means.”_

_He doesn’t, not really, but there’s a defeated edge to Eliot’s voice that makes all the fight go out of Quentin, a rush of emotion rising._

_Quentin wants to walk over there and wrap his arms around Eliot’s waist from behind. He wants to press his face between Eliot’s shoulder blades, inhale the familiar earthy scent of him. He wants—_

_Oh. Maybe he knows exactly what Eliot means._

I’m sorry, _Quentin wants to say._ It’s not like they pass out guidebooks on _So You’ve Found Yourself Stranded in the Past on Another World with Your Best Friend Who You’re Maybe Totally Falling in Love With and You’re Terrified of Getting Too Content Here but You Also Miss Your Old Life Sometimes Because Life Is Weird and Complicated and Your Brain Has Never Worked the Way It Should._

_That’d be a weird name for a book anyway._

Maybe I don’t know how to just live my life, here or anywhere else, _Quentin wants to say._ But I want to try. With you, I want to try. 

_He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything._

_Instead, he stands up from the chair and purposefully, almost casually, kicks over some of the stacks of tiles._

_Eliot whips around._

_“Oops.” Quentin shrugs, heart racing under the surface._

_Eliot’s hurt anger morphs into confusion, mouth hanging open in a rare speechless moment._

_“Let’s take the day off,” Quentin suggests, swallowing his fear, then kicks half-heartedly at another stack, eyes not leaving Eliot’s. “Together.”_

_Eliot’s mouth closes. His jaw tenses._

_He surprises Quentin by striding toward him, stopping inches away._

_Quentin tilts his head up._

_Not breaking eye contact, Eliot kicks at one of the stacks of tiles._

_Eliot’s expression twitches in amusement, and all at once, they’re both kicking around the mosaic, knocking over tiles and scattering them everywhere._

_Quentin doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he notices Eliot laughing too, the two of them making a mess together. There’s a small joy in it that Quentin can’t quite place; it lights a spark inside him, scaring away his darker mood._

_When all the piles have been thoroughly scattered, the two of them end up standing next to each other, breathing heavily, observing their handiwork._

_“Well, unless the beauty of all life is chaos,” Eliot says, “I think this sets us back a little.”_

_Quentin steps closer, pressing their shoulders together. He reaches for Eliot’s hand, trying to swallow down the anxiety rising in his chest. “We’ve got time.”_

_“We might not,” Eliot says, softly, tangling their fingers together. “I_ do _get it, you know: the longing for our other life, the bullshit quest we face here…”_

_Quentin squeezes his hand and pulls it along with him as he pivots to face Eliot. “I get it, too: There’s so much life to live here. Now. No matter how much time we have left.”_

_Eliot starts to smile gently. “Even though it’s nothing like what we’d expected for our lives…”_

_“…it’s actually kind of peaceful most of the time, isn’t it?” Quentin says, smiling himself, feeling the truth behind that, a truth that’s fighting back at his anxious brain trash from this morning._

_Eliot looks down at him in wonder. “It really is,” he says, and reels him in for a kiss._

_Quentin stands on tiptoe to meet him halfway. He reaches up to cup Eliot’s face with both hands, rough calluses against rough stubble, the feeling of Eliot’s jaw moving beneath his palms as they kiss deeply._

_One of Eliot’s hands has pressed hot and broad against the small of Quentin’s back, pulling their bodies closer together. Eliot’s other thumb rubs tender circles at the base of Quentin’s neck, at odds with the passion of the rest of his actions. Quentin sighs at the release of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying there._

_“Let’s go back to bed,” Eliot whispers against his lips._

_“The bed you just kicked me out of?” Quentin says, but he’s grinning, dropping his head to rest his forehead in the dip of Eliot’s collarbone, hiding the joy on his face._

_“I promise it’ll be more fun than that,” Eliot says, dropping his voice low and hot in Quentin’s ear._

_It goes straight to Quentin’s cock, his fingers flexing on Eliot’s shoulders. Eliot inhales sharply and presses their bodies closer. Quentin can feel Eliot’s cock against his, big and firm through the soft fabric of their baggy Fillorian trousers._

_“Fuck.” Quentin breathes the word like it’s not even a word, just a natural extension of his breath while being with Eliot like this. He’s not used to this yet. He lifts his head to look up at the heat and affection in Eliot’s eyes. He hopes he never gets used to this. “We should take days off more often.”_

_One of Eliot’s secret soft smiles lights up his face, and when he kisses Quentin again, it’s with all the care Quentin never knew he’d get, in this life or any other._

________________________________________________________________

Quentin wakes up with his face on his most recent drawing. He un-peels his cheek from the page and gazes bleary-eyed at the drawing: it sort of resembles the crown of a high king. Plus some drool bleeding together most of the colors. 

He sighs and runs his hands over his face, through his hair. Reality comes back to him in awful detail. The Monster has been gone for almost 48 hours, and Quentin has done fuck all but draw, smoke, research, and sometimes actually sleep. He’s barely wrapped his mind around the fact that they can’t save Eliot anymore, but he has tried to do some research on figuring out how to kill the Monster. Not that he’s gotten anywhere.

Yesterday, Julia found him smoking on the balcony and he ended up telling her the news: that Eliot is dead now, _so new plan: stop that_ thing _before it can hurt anyone else._

The problem is: Intellectually, he knows that Eliot is gone, but he can’t shake the feeling of Eliot as a presence in his life. After spending such a long time lost in memories the past couple days, maybe that makes sense. 

Quentin’s also been thinking of this small, vital thing from his first year at Brakebills. 

_You are not alone here_ , Eliot had said. The only other person who’d ever been that for him had been Julia. Taking him back from the edge, not by force, but with a hand held out like, _I got you_. Like he didn’t have to even worry the hand wouldn’t be there. Of course it’d be there. It was there even when Quentin wasn’t there in return. 

That’s what Eliot had become to him that first year, even when they were fucked up about other things, other people. Even when Quentin was an oblivious, selfish friend. Even when Quentin was in love with Alice, the intensity of that obsession blinding him to everyone else. Even when Quentin’s feelings were colored with guilt and frustration after the Threesome That Shall Not Be Named. Even when Eliot started to recover from all the self-medicating, but only because he had to go live as High King and quite possibly never see Quentin again. 

While Quentin had been hugging him goodbye—that time, that particular goodbye—he could feel it: _This would not be the last time he’d see Eliot._ He’s not a clairvoyant, but he trusted the feeling like he’d trusted so few of his feelings in a lifetime of his brain lying to him. 

Those first couple years, Quentin had been overwhelmed by everything: rekindling his friendship with Julia, trying to rebuild Alice, giving up on magic, and then trying to save it. Sometimes he’d feel Eliot’s hand held out behind him, usually from a world away, his voice low in Quentin’s mind, _You are not alone here_ , and he’d trust in that, just enough to keep himself from drowning. 

It’s what Quentin thought about the other day, after the Monster told him that he could feel Eliot’s soul die: It’s strange but Quentin can still feel Eliot’s hand behind him, on the edge of his senses, _you are_ not _alone here._

He wants to believe it, but Quentin wants to believe a lot of things that are not true. 

So, when he showers and emerges into the kitchen, listening to Shoshana and Julia talk about a new plan to trap the Monster—he’s in. There’s no use in reaching for a hand that’s not there anymore. 

Quentin sets his emotions on _Setting: Kolinahr_ and says it again: “Eliot’s dead.” 

He sighs and tries to look Shoshana and Julia in the eyes. “And the Monster’s coming back here, so let’s figure this out before he does.”

________________________________________________________________

Except—

 

_Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that?_

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker._

_I’m alive in here._

 

After the Monster blips away again, and Alice leaves to go _be where she’s supposed to go_ , Quentin collapses on the sofa, the darkness of the apartment enveloping him in the illusion of privacy. He runs his hands over his face, exhaling unsteadily, and for one bizarre moment, feels like he’s about to burst out laughing. 

He swallows it down but covers a rogue grin with his hand. Is this what emotional whiplash feels like? One moment you’re about to kill the possessed body of your dead best friend, standing there trying to savor seeing his face one more time, and the next he’s resurfacing to speak to you in code. 

And not just any code: Eliot referenced That Conversation, the one that Quentin’s brain has been repressing because their friendship was too important not to move on from Eliot turning him down. 

But it sounds like Eliot remembers? He had, what, thirty seconds? And _that’s_ what Eliot says to prove he’s alive? Not, maybe, something more straightforward like the recipe to the Physical Kids Cottage signature cocktail, or which movie he had to quote to be crowned High King? 

Quentin’s brain is all revisions now, scribbling in the margins and trying to make sense of this new fragment of information. Nothing’s puzzling together. His best guess is that since so few people know about their time in Fillory Before, Eliot figured their private conversation after it would be proof enough. 

Whatever else it means, it means that there’s hope. He feels _sick_ with it: nauseous, light-headed, heart racing, the works. The Monster doesn’t know shit: Eliot’s _alive._

A fierce resolve settles in his bones: Quentin will save Eliot. Whatever it takes. 

________________________________________________________________

With _Operation: Save Eliot_ back on, Quentin dives back into research with renewed fervor. 

But the high he’s riding from knowing Eliot’s alive gets snuffed out fast: The Monster tries to kill Eliot’s body, and Quentin explodes in a barely contained rage to stop him. 

Now there are probably bruises on his back from where the Monster tossed him across the room, bruises on his throat from where the Monster threatened to choke him to death, bruises in places he doesn’t feel yet. 

“Q,” Julia says, her voice worried, stepping into his line of sight after the Monster stalks off. 

“I can’t right now, Jules.” He’s still clenching his jaw, heart racing, trying to pull himself back together. He’s useless to saving Eliot otherwise. 

She searches his face for a moment, then backs away and slides down the wall to sit against it. “Okay,” she says, “but I’m just gonna sit here for a minute.” 

He sighs and sits down next to her, both of them with their knees drawn to their chests. She rests her head on his shoulder, and it feels unbearably good for someone to do that right now, someone who’s not the Monster playacting in Eliot’s body. 

Breathing together in silence, her head a comforting weight on him, it’s enough to help calm him down, for now. 

“You could’ve died,” she murmurs to him. 

Quentin tries to keep his breathing even. “The Monster is nothing if not needy.” Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. “I trusted that if I threatened to take away his favorite toy, he’d back down.” 

Julia reaches over and grabs his hand, holding it on top of her knees. “And you’re the favorite toy.” 

“As fucked up as it is, yeah.” He swallows. “I am.” 

She squeezes his hand and lets them sit in silence again. 

“You should get some sleep,” Julia says after a while. 

“I know.” 

“I’m serious, Q. You need to get some _actual_ sleep. Not just do that thing where you close your door and pretend in the morning like you’ve slept more than ten minutes.” 

He tilts his head to the side to look at her. “Am I that obvious?” 

“No matter what you’re referring to, yes, Q, you are always _that_ obvious,” she says with a smirk. 

His head tips back against the wall. He closes his eyes. “Okay, I’ll try.” 

“For Eliot,” she says. He nods without lifting his head or opening his eyes. 

That night, he falls asleep without even touching the pastels. There are some nights where it’s just too much to remind himself that there’d been a time when he’d been happy. 

________________________________________________________________

Sleeping alone has felt alien ever since he and Eliot got back from Fillory Before. 

Their bed used to be, well, _their_ bed. Quentin used to fall asleep with no fewer than one other person in bed with him. For a long time, it had been full of comfort: of Eliot, and Arielle, and Ted when he was a child, all of them taking turns on who got to be in the middle. They had to charm the bed so they’d all fit. After Arielle died, they removed the charm, unable to bear all that extra space without her. 

Here at Kady’s apartment, Quentin’s bed is too big. He can feel the space where more people should be, and the air never settles quite right around him. So, sometimes he falls asleep on the desk, drifting off on top of the pastels. 

Sometimes, while he’s researching, he falls asleep out on the living room sofa, its cushions just wide enough for his body to curl up on alone, comforted by the comings and goings of people he trusts. Except for when the Monster reappears, and Quentin has to wake up to those eyes, those shoulders, the right and wrong of it all rushing forward at once. 

He tries not to fall asleep out there often, but once Poppy leaves, after what Quentin’s brain has secretly dubbed _The Trouble with Dragons: Part IV_ , he conks out on the sofa, lulled by the presence of his friends. 

A knock at the door startles him awake. He listens to Julia answer it, followed by an indistinct brief conversation. 

When Julia returns, she’s holding a small treasure chest. “Well, we got it,” she says, lips pressed into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“The stone?” Quentin scrambles up to sit, and a couple of raw eggs splat to the floor. “Oh—ugh.” He’d forgotten about the hangover cure. 

“Yep.” She sets the chest on the coffee table. “Guess the Monster will be back soon to claim it.” 

“This is good news, Jules,” Quentin says quietly, realizing Kady and Penny are still asleep. “We’re one step closer to getting Eliot back. What’s up?” 

Julia curls back up on the couch. “Harold the Herald just told me to ‘seek The Binder’—he said the dragon suggested it’ll be the key to getting goddess’d up again.” 

Quentin nods. “More mysteries.” 

“More _mysteries_.” Julia opens her laptop and sighs. 

Quentin watches her for a moment, the way her face pinches when she’s frustrated, how familiar that has been throughout his life. Well, this life. 

She looks over at him. “You should go get some more rest.” 

“So should you.” 

She stares him down, mouth set in a thin line. 

Quentin rolls his eyes and heads back to his room. 

He doesn’t want to get more sleep yet. He wants to draw. Ever since his conversation with Poppy, he’s been thinking about the son he’d had in another life. What a smart, funny kid Ted had been: learning math through the Mosaic with Quentin, playing dress-up with Eliot and pretending to be a knight, helping Arielle care for the garden and making friends with some of the local talking animals. 

Quentin used to think he could never be a good dad: His brain would break, or the kid would break, or both. It’s not like the fear went away the moment he held a newborn Teddy, either—if anything, it intensified. But somewhere along the way, Quentin realized he didn’t need to worry about becoming a good dad—he already was one. 

It hurts too much to keep thinking about a son he'll never see again. So, he lets his mind wander to what led up to being a father. 

Quentin opens to a fresh page, already on his third sketchbook. This time, he doesn’t zone in on a memory of one of their puzzle designs; instead, he tries to recall their old quilt: patchwork like the Mosaic, soft and warm, and there with them throughout everything, charmed to never fray or wear away. 

Nights together those first few months at the Mosaic had reminded Quentin a little bit of sleepovers with Julia. How much he appreciated that their parents trusted they weren’t more than friends, while also aching with his unrequited crush as they stayed up late, lying on their backs talking into the darkness until one of them drifted off. 

Before the quest, he and Eliot hadn’t had a lot of time to talk, not for a long time. There'd been so much to say, so much yet to learn about each other, or talk about what they missed back on 21st Century Earth. It’d been surface-level things for awhile, unless they’d been drinking, and then it would all pour out: how much they missed Margo, missed Julia, their complicated feelings for Alice, for Fen, their theories about how everyone would move on without them if they never made it back. 

Sometimes, they’d fall asleep drunkenly spooning: Eliot’s arm draped around Quentin’s waist, tucking their bodies close together; or Eliot on his back with Quentin flopped against his side, head in the crook of his shoulder, after a particularly long day stooped over the Mosaic. 

Except—

it evolved. It’s always been evolving with them. 

 

_One morning, Quentin drags himself out of bed, and it occurs to him that they’ve been at the Mosaic for almost two years. He sits down at their tiny kitchen table where Eliot’s set up some breakfast, and it’s been eleven months since Quentin first kissed him. Eleven months of doing way more than drunkenly spooning and talking in their bed at night._

_So, Quentin almost chokes on his food when Eliot sits down across from him and says, without preamble, “I think you should give it a shot with Arielle.”_

_“I’m sorry, what?”_

_“Arielle. Our friend from town. Peaches.” Eliot flutters his fingers unhelpfully. “Plums.”_

_“Yeah, I know who—“ Quentin rolls his eyes. “Why do you think I…?”_

_“Oh, come on, like you don’t?” Eliot smiles at him with such affection, but Quentin knows it’s his_ oh Quentin, you dumb little puppy _look._

_Quentin sighs. “Look, it’s not like I haven’t…I have eyes, okay? And she’s funny and she’s been a good friend to us. Even though I’m still not sure she believes we’re from the future.”_

_“Oh, she definitely doesn’t believe us. We’re like her strange country pals she stops by to humor and make sure we eat.”_

_Quentin cracks a smile. “I mean…yeah.”_

_“Q,” Eliot says, a teasing edge to his voice as he leans forward over the table. “Look at yourself, you’re blushing.”_

_“Shut up, I am not.”_

_“Okay, Mr. I Have Eyes—so do I.” Eliot chuckles low in his throat, reaches across the short space between them and tucks Quentin’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingers there, warm on Quentin’s jaw. “You’re adorable.”_

_Quentin feels overwhelmed by Eliot being so tender with him at the same time he’s telling Quentin to go be with someone else._

_“So, is this your way of—“ he tries, but has to swallow. “Are you—“ He can’t bring himself to say_ breaking up with me. _They’re not even_ together _, exactly. They’ve certainly never discussed it, just kept on falling into bed (and wall and floor and Mosaic and tree and bath and—) together, making out like teenagers and fucking in ways Quentin’s never experienced before in his_ life. _When they hold each other, they talk about everything, past present future; everything but what they are to each other._

_Eliot’s expression shifts to concern the longer the words get stuck in Quentin’s throat. His hand drops from Quentin’s face, and it’s immediately missed._

_But then he mumbles, “I’m not saying this right,” more to himself than to Quentin, and he’s getting up, moving his chair around the table and thunking it down right next to Quentin._

_Eliot sits down, and Quentin turns to face him, no table between them anymore. Their knees bump, then slot together as Eliot scoots closer, as close as possible without climbing into Quentin’s lap._

_“Look, Q.” Eliot places his hands on Quentin’s thighs. “What I’m trying to tell you is: I’m not going anywhere.”_

_His voice trembles a little, and Quentin knows him, knows him well enough to know that_ things aren’t usually worth caring about, _so saying something like this is difficult for Eliot. Quentin rests his hands on top of Eliot’s and squeezes._

_“What I’m trying to tell you,” Eliot continues, turning over one of his hands in Quentin’s and holding on, “is whatever you and I are together—why would you overthink something as natural as breathing?”_

_Quentin’s heart is going to beat out of his chest. He’s going to die right here, happier than he’s ever been. He swallows, holding onto Eliot’s hand like a lifeline, and lets his smile overtake his whole face. “Did you write that ahead of time?” he teases. Eliot’s eyes sharpen. “Like, are you writing poetry when I’m not—“_

_“Oh I see how it is, Coldwater.” Eliot slides one of his hands farther up Quentin’s thigh. “You see how easy it is next time you try to speechify to me, hmm?” He hooks his fingers over Quentin’s belt and yanks him forward into a kiss._

_It’s hot and rough, all tongue stubble teeth textures, the push and pull of lips, of standing up to get closer, always impossibly closer._

_“Eliot,” Quentin gasps softly as Eliot starts kissing his neck, one hand on Quentin’s ass to urge him upwards, the other on the back of his skull, fingers slipped into the hair below his ponytail, giving a small tug._

_“This,” Eliot murmurs again his skin, then raises his head to look Quentin in the eyes. Quentin lunges forward to keep kissing, but Eliot moves a hand to his shoulder to stop him. “Do you see what I mean?_ This. _Why would I worry about losing you to someone else when_ this _is who we are together.”_

_Quentin’s not sure he gets it—_

_(not yet, not until weeks later, when he kisses Arielle for the first time, all giddy and wanted and content to explore a new something, and realizes he’s also looking forward to laying in Eliot’s arms later, telling him how happy he is right now, listening to what Eliot did today, wondering at how this is his life, how he never knew he could have it)_

_—but he trusts Eliot. He trusts that sometimes they know things about each other before they know it about themselves. Trusts that, despite his belief in them, Eliot knows the risk behind this, and wants them to do it anyway._

_As the weeks turn into months turn into love—one of Quentin’s favorite things about_ giving it a shot _is how the relationships between the three of them deepen at the same velocity, even though the dynamics are all uniquely their own._

_There are a few times when the three of them end up in bed together—_

_(the white hot memories of: desperately licking Arielle, while Eliot holds his hips and slides deeper inside him,_

_or: pinching Arielle’s nipples while she rides Quentin and sucks Eliot’s cock at the same time, trying to last as long as he can so he’ll never have to stop feeling this, watching this, hearing the ecstatic sounds of the two people he loves)_

_—but, mostly, when the three of them are all in bed at once, it’s because they’re sleeping, or snuggling, or sitting against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder, each of them reading or writing or sewing, quietly sharing space with each other._

_It’s not simple, but it’s also not all that difficult to organize: When Arielle and Quentin want privacy, Eliot goes into town, makes drinking buddies, finds people to flirt with, sometimes more. When Quentin and Eliot want privacy, Arielle goes into town, visits her family and friends, also finds other people to flirt with._

For two men from ‘the future’ _, she said once, making air quotes that she’d learned from watching Quentin mockingly use them at Eliot,_ you’re not nearly as evolved as Fillorians when it comes to these types of arrangements. 

_The thing is: they work. All three of them. Eliot and Arielle’s relationship is no less deep for being largely asexual; it’s still romantic, it’s still intimate. They bring each other little mementos from town, and have inside jokes about Quentin that he’s never gotten them to explain, and they work side by side in the garden, tending to life together. Sometimes, Quentin comes in from working late on the Mosaic to find Eliot with his head on Arielle’s lap, both of them talking in low voices as they play with each other’s hands._

_The three of them—they build a home together, here, at the Mosaic._

________________________________________________________________

“Q.” Someone’s at the periphery of his dream, nudging him awake, pulling him away from napping tangled up under a patchwork quilt with the people he loved most in his— 

It slips away. Quentin half opens one eye and focuses through his messy hair. He must've dozed off while losing himself in the pastels and memories.

Julia’s crouched beside his desk at the apartment. “Q, I just wanted to check if you were actually sleeping, but it looks like you fell asleep while…” Her eyes flick over to the stack of sketchbooks—clearly well-used, the multi-colored chalk dusting past the edges of the pages—then back to Quentin’s face. She raises an eyebrow and nods to whatever’s under him. “That doesn’t look like research.”

Quentin groans and lifts his head. “Shit.” He looks down at the mosaic drawing he’d been working on, a big cheek smudge distorting the quilt design. He rubs at his chalky cheek and rushes to close the sketchbook.

Julia purses her lips, her sharp eyes meeting his. “What was _that_?” 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. 

She narrows her eyes and stares him down. 

Quentin sighs. “It’s just something to do with my hands.” He stretches his fingers out on the desk, peach tree shades highlighting his knuckles. “It’s not like my hands can do much of anything that’s useful these days,” he mutters, bitterness creeping into every word. 

Julia gently rests one of her hands on top of his. Hers is smooth, unmarked, her rings cool against his skin, her power palpable despite it being untappable. It soothes Quentin more than he’d have expected. 

He exhales shakily and meets her eyes. They’re kind, and not for the first time he’s grateful he’s had his best friend back in his life, on the regular. 

“I can feel your heart, Q. I always do. Especially…” He can see her choosing her next words carefully. “Especially when it comes to Eliot.”

Quentin has to close his eyes. It never helps though. Eliot, Mosaic Eliot, Golem Eliot dying, the Monster in Eliot’s body—they’re all there.

“Why pastels, though?” Julia asks.

He’s pretty sure Eliot tells Margo everything, so she might know they remember their lives in Fillory Before, even though she hasn't brought it up, but Quentin never told anyone but his dad—who’s not even around to remember anymore either. The aches, they layer, like colors blending into something more. 

“It's…” Quentin opens his eyes and looks at Julia. “It’s a long story.” She raises her eyebrows. He hesitates. “You know—Poppy’s baby? It’s not mine.” 

Julia looks confused. “Right…I know. What does that have to—” 

“But I _was_ a dad, once. And a husband, to a woman who died long before we were born. And Eliot was my—” Quentin has to clear his throat to relieve the tightness there, just enough. “Eliot was my partner, for life.”

He can practically see Julia’s brilliant mind racing to catch up, to solve the puzzle he’s barely begun to reveal. She inhales sharply. “Fifty years…?” Quentin nods, so she continues, “That’s what he said, back when you said Eliot’s alive. That’s—Q, what exactly are you telling me?” 

He opens his sketchbook again, turns to a page that’s not smudged. It’s a zig-zagging abstract design, one of the patterns from their later years. He holds it up to Julia. 

“Okay, so, the time key—remember? We got it because Eliot and I lived a whole other life together: fifty years. At the Mosaic.” He swallows, sets down the sketchbook, tracing the edges with a finger. “Doing this, it…I feel connected to him still, in a way I haven’t been able to feel in a long time. Sometimes, these memories feel even more vivid than…anything. Even my memories of whatever we did yesterday.” 

“Oh, Q…”

Quentin doesn’t want to see the pity on her face, but he can hear that she gets it, how he really feels about Eliot. 

“Tell me the story,” she says gently. 

“Like, I said—” He looks at her. “It’s a very long story.” 

She lifts her hand from his and stands up. “I have time.” 

They don’t, is the thing. The Monster will be back any moment for the stone they just got, expecting them to be researching where to find the next one. They need to be losing themselves in research, not stories. They need to be finding a way for Julia to get The Binder and her powers back, so they can come up with a way out of all this for Eliot. 

They don’t actually have time. Quentin shouldn’t have even taken the time to indulge in a drawing, or sleep, or anything. 

But Julia sits down on his bed, hugs her knees to her chest, and looks at him expectantly. “Once upon a time…” she prompts. 

It surprises a laugh out of him, a brief easement of the pressure in his chest. He tucks his hair behind his ear. It’s too short now, falling right back. He gets a quick flash of his long hair—his _really_ long hair, the way he wore it when Ted was a kid, just before Arielle died, when Eliot was his rock. 

“Once upon a time,” Quentin recites to Julia, “there was another time where none of this mess with the Monster ever happened. And—“ His mouth hangs open, a little in awe of what he’s about to say, thinking more about the memories he’d fallen asleep to. “And I was happy.” 

 

 _Several years in, Quentin wakes up most mornings to the sounds of Eliot up and about before the rest of them._ Remnants of long days as a monarch, _Eliot says sometimes, until Arielle finally starts to believe when and where they’re from._

_“Upsy-daisy,” Eliot says to wake them up when he’s in a good mood._

_“Don’t call me Daisy,” Quentin mumbles automatically one morning, and Arielle groans and rolls over, the quilt trailing behind her._

_“Ha ha,” Eliot says dry as dust, “yes, that is_ hilarious _every time, et cetera et cetera—up, up, I need you both.”_

_Quentin blinks up at him, Eliot’s face illuminated by the morning light, and smiles contentedly, stretching against the bed linens. “Uh-uh, down, down,” Quentin mumbles, tugging Eliot’s wrist until he’s perched on the side of the bed._

_Eliot smiles fondly. “You can’t hold me hostage to your adorableness, Q. Teddy needs you. He’s up and wants to ‘puzzo’, which I can only assume means he wants to get back to learning how to name colors by passing tiles to you today.”_

_“Have fun with that,” Arielle grumbles from the other side of the bed._

_“Ari, I need you in the garden.” Eliot leans over Quentin to nudge Arielle’s hip. “The rabbits are talking back to me again, and I just_ really _don’t want to have to negotiate over our_ own _carrots. They like you better.”_

_It’s yet another thing Quentin hadn’t planned for—no how-to manuals for building a polyamorous family in the past on another world—but Quentin’s happier here than he ever might’ve been if he’d planned any other sort of life for himself._

_Even though they still work on the Mosaic nearly every day, Quentin no longer wakes up hoping today is the day he’ll get to go home. He already is home._

________________________________________________________________

The Monster shows up the next day, and everything happens way too fast after that. 

Penny gets into the Monster’s head, and finds out Eliot’s been at work from the inside, because _of course_ he’s been. Quentin feels such a rush of gratitude knowing Eliot’s in there, doing his best to find a way out. Their greatest resource for research is not at the Brakebills library; it’s been inside the Monster this whole time. 

But that relief is tempered by the revelation that they won’t have somewhere for the Monster to go now that they know the stones don’t build a body for him. Quentin is one private panic attack away from _not_ keeping it together, 

 

except—

“Will this help?” Alice says, handing Julia a thick book that literally says _The Binder_ on it. 

 

except—

“Who here’s ready to exorcise a bitch,” Margo says, appearing in the apartment, wielding a truly badass pair of magical axes. 

 

except—

They come up with a plan, one that’ll save Eliot. Finally. 

First stop: Brakebills South. 

“The more remote we are,” Penny reasons, “the more likely we’ll be able to stay undetected to the Monster while we talk to Eliot.”

Quentin nods, heart speeding up at the thought of _actually talking to Eliot_ today. “Let’s do this.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Alice says, walking up to Penny, chin and shoulders set in that stubborn wall Quentin has never been able to break through once she’s put it up. “I know a spell that will improve our chances of staying undetectable once we’re in. It’s only good for a few minutes, but it’s strong.” 

She turns to look Quentin in the eye. “I want to help.” 

That’s the thing about Alice, the thing that’s taking Quentin a long time to forgive, even though part of him wants to forgive: She wants to fix what she’s broken. Quentin’s been there himself and knows what a dangerous state that can be. It’s difficult to forgive someone for something you haven’t even forgiven yourself for. 

Whenever he tries to help—bring back Alice, save Fillory, bring back magic—his help is useless: Alice didn’t want to come back, he didn’t save shit, magic didn’t come back right. Is this how it’ll be with Eliot, too? Will Quentin save him, only to find that Eliot’s not himself anymore? 

Quentin keeps giving himself chances. Maybe he should start giving Alice more chances, too. 

“Okay,” he says to Alice, and they’re off. 

It feels strange to be back at Brakebills South, memories around every corner, most of them Alice—and Alice herself, standing next to Quentin, both of them ages away from who they’d been when they’d last been here. Quentin’s relieved there’s no time to dwell on that. 

Penny, Alice, and Quentin form a triangle, holding hands, and get right to it. 

When Quentin opens his eyes, he’s in front of the Physical Kids Cottage. 

Penny walks right up to the door and bangs on it. “Not a lot of time here, Eliot!” 

The door bursts open. “Holy shit, you came back. What are you—” Eliot freezes when he sees Quentin behind Penny, mouth falling open. 

A rush like caffeine rises through Quentin’s body. No—not caffeine. Quentin’s lived without Eliot for so long now, seeing him again is more like when he found out magic is real: the rush of discovery blending with disorientation at such a major change in his understanding of the world. And hey, Eliot had been there for that, too. 

“Get the fuck in here and close the damn door,” Penny hisses, grabbing Quentin by the shoulder and hauling him through the doorway. Quentin had been so distracted by Eliot, he hadn’t even realized Penny and Alice had already gone inside. 

Stumbling as Penny lets go of him, Quentin shuts the door. 

When he turns back around, Eliot is looking at him. He has that same awestruck expression, like he can’t believe he’s actually looking at Quentin right now. “Q.” 

Every emotion that Quentin’s been trying to tamp down rises up in him at that one, simple syllable. His name has always sounded so _right_ in Eliot’s voice. 

Clenching his hands into fists, Quentin reminds himself of the mission. He will not launch himself at Eliot. He will not ask why Eliot brought up _proof of concept_ , before. He will not say _I miss you so much I hardly feel like myself anymore._

But then Eliot steps forward and wraps his arms around Quentin, tucking Quentin’s head under his chin. 

It feels like someone stabbed Quentin in the gut and sent him back to a time when he got fifty years in these arms. Back to a time when Eliot’s clothes smelled of earth and garden sage and sticky, sweet peach juice. Back to a time when Quentin didn’t need to second-guess why Eliot was touching him at all. 

Every molecule of Quentin’s body wants to relax into this, but he can’t. He doesn’t. They’re not those people anymore—Eliot made sure of that. Quentin isn’t about to let himself pretend when he knows this doesn’t mean the same thing to Eliot. 

“El,” he says quietly, hands still clenched at his sides to keep from hugging Eliot back. If he does, he'll never let go. “Eliot, we’re here to learn whatever else you know about the Monster.” 

“We don't have a lot of time,” Alice adds awkwardly from behind him. 

Eliot lets go of Quentin like he’s been burnt. 

Quentin watches him step back quickly, head bowed, clearing his throat. 

“Right,” Eliot says raising his head to look at Alice, not Quentin, his voice even and kingly now. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on out there, but I can tell you everything I know about the Monster’s memories in here—things I don’t think he even knows.” 

Alice steps forward and pulls out a notepad. “It’ll help me commit it to memory,” she explains with a tiny shrug of one shoulder when Eliot raises an eyebrow. 

As Eliot starts talking, Quentin can’t look away, even though Eliot barely glances at him. Being here doesn’t feel real, which, Quentin supposes, in some ways it sort of isn’t. It’s Eliot’s reality, not theirs. 

Eliot’s standing there at his most flawless: crisply ironed vest, perfectly coiffed short hair, not a zit or scuffed shoe in sight. The real Eliot is impeccable, but not perfect: hairs falling loose within hours, dark undereye circles when he hasn’t slept, mottled skin when he’s been drinking too much, the wear and tear of a day well lived. 

Quentin knows this is only a certain kind of real, but as Eliot tells them all he knows about the Monster, Quentin can’t help but savor getting to look at Eliot, a version of him that’s Eliot’s idea of perfection. 

“Okay, that better be it,” Penny breaks in, “‘cause our time limit’s almost up.” 

Eliot nods at him, then looks at Alice, his eyes desperate. “That’s all I have.” 

“It’s enough,” Alice says, voice leaving no room for doubt. 

Eliot turns back to Quentin, finally. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes have that same desperate edge to them.

Panic rises in Quentin’s chest, his heart racing.

Fuck it all. Quentin can’t help himself: He steps closer and puts his hands on Eliot’s face. 

“I will get you back,” he says, looking up directly into Eliot’s eyes. 

Eliot’s mouth turns in a familiar way: his chin tugging upward, lips pressing together into something between a smile and a frown, an expression that is both and neither. 

“I will get you back if it’s the last thing I do,” Quentin repeats with conviction, his chest aching for him, in any way, even if it’s always going to be no more than friendship between them. 

“It’s _go_ time,” Penny shouts behind him, but Quentin doesn’t move. Just give him a little longer with this version of Eliot, just a little longer. 

Eliot touches the back of Quentin’s neck, the barest touch of fingertips. “Please don’t make it the last thing you do,” he says, voice low, and—

Penny touches Quentin’s shoulder and blips them out of there. 

Quentin stumbles, gulping in a big breath of cold air.

Alice immediately starts rattling off what they learned. 

Penny, nose bleeding, reaches out a hand to steady Quentin. “You okay, bro?” 

“What? Yeah,” he says, leaning back against the nearest wall and thinking about the last thing he saw: Eliot’s soft, sad eyes. 

Quentin’s chest, his head, his fingertips are all buzzing faintly. His face feels strange, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s grinning. It’s that same nauseating hope he’d felt the last time he’d gotten proof Eliot’s still alive. 

“Q? Are you listening?” Alice says, sounding a little confused, eyes searching Quentin’s face. 

“Sorry,” he says, biting back his grin. “Come at me again. What’s the plan now.”

________________________________________________________________

They decide to strike the very next day. 

It turns out that Alice's notes from Eliot helped them pinpoint weaknesses the Monster doesn't know they know. They're as ready as they'll ever be, and they have to act fast before the Monster finds Enyalius.

“As exiled High King, I demand everyone take a damn minute before we get this party started,” Margo declares. 

So, Julia and Penny are meditating. Alice and Kady are hacking the pipes. Margo is polishing her axes. 

Quentin lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes. He doesn’t even want to go back to his room to his pastels right now. It’s a comfort to feel his friends milling about, preparing. 

He thinks back on the last time they needed to save the world. What a concept: _saving the world._ What hubris to think they could ever save it from itself, especially since they always end up fucking up something in the process. But here they are, always trying, and here Quentin is, with his single-minded mission of getting Eliot back. 

That last time, when he’d been preparing to do something big and stupid and be the hero, Eliot had been here with him, trying to save Quentin.

 

_Okay, so maybe some of the things that the depression key whispered in Quentin’s ear had stuck. Maybe that’s a little bit why he’d decided to take this probably foolish but ultimately necessary leap into being jailor to some unknown monster: Quentin had broken a lot of things; he needed to start fixing things. This would bring magic back and that’s what mattered now._

_He’s not doing this because he wants to die anymore. He’s doing it because he wants to be able to live with himself._

_“There’s another way,” Eliot says, cornering him in Quentin’s old room where he’s trying to find his deck of cards—figures he’ll pack light for a lifetime of monster-sitting._

_Quentin sighs. “El, this isn’t a discussion.”_

_“Well, it fucking should be, Quentin.” He moves closer until Quentin needs to tilt his head up to look into Eliot’s eyes._

_Quentin stands his ground. He can’t waver. If he wavers at all, Eliot is going to wear him down into thinking there’s something for him here, even though there isn’t: Alice isn’t the woman he loved anymore, not really. Margo is off in Fillory where Quentin doesn’t belong after all, not in the way he’d always hoped he would. And now even Julia has left to be a goddess._

_And Eliot…well, he knows Eliot will miss him, but it’s not like he won’t move on. He made it clear that Quentin’s just his friend. And Eliot has other friends. Margo and Fen will be there for him._

_“It’s my choice to make,” Quentin says. “It’s my responsibility.”_

_“The hell it is. I—“ Eliot’s determined expression falters for a second. “We need you. Here.”_

_“Magic will be back.” Quentin shakes his head. “That’s what matters.”_

_Eliot rests both of his hands on Quentin’s shoulders. “_ You _matter.”_

_Quentin looks up into his eyes and tries to fucking savor it. He’s got a long life ahead of him without looking into those eyes._

_“It’s time to go,” Quentin says quietly._

_Eliot closes his eyes. “Dammit, Q.”_

_“There’s nothing you could do that’d change my mind about this, El.”_ I mean, _Quentin thinks,_ maybe if you’ve changed your mind about _us_ , but I don’t want to find out what I’d do if I had to choose between being selfish or keeping this deal to save all of magic. _”I’m doing this. Just let me go.”_

_Eliot opens his eyes and searches Quentin’s face. “I hate you for this,” he says, voice low._

_Quentin swallows down the urge to hug him, just one more time. “I know.”_

_Eliot sighs, not looking away. “I_ hate _hating you for this.”_

_“I know.” Quentin huffs a small, sad laugh. “I’ll miss you, too, El.”_

 

Quentin listens to his friends preparing around him in the living room. 

_Why the fuck didn’t I just grab him and hug him goodbye?_ he thinks. 

“You good, Coldwater?” 

Quentin opens his eyes to Margo. She’s sitting on the wide back of the sofa, peering down at him. 

“I’m—“ He tries to say _fine_ , but the word gets stuck in the look Margo’s giving him: like she genuinely wants to know. “No,” he says with a sad little laugh, pushing himself up to sit and face her. “I’m really not.” 

“Neither am I,” she says, and reaches out a hand on the top of the sofa. Quentin holds onto it. “But we both know that—for him? We can do fucking _anything_.” 

He feels like he might crack open, but he breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to find strength in Margo being here, in the memory of seeing Eliot briefly in his mind yesterday, in the fact that they all have a plan. “For Eliot.” 

“For _Eliot_ ,” Margo says.

________________________________________________________________

When the dust settles, Kady’s living room is a wreck around them, all the furniture blown aside, lights smashed, part of the ceiling caving in, a broken window. 

But they’re all still standing. Well—Quentin, Julia, Alice, Kady, and Penny are still standing in a wide circle. Margo and the Monster are both collapsed from the shockwave, at the center of the circle. 

Alice and Kady are breathing heavily, coming down from the big ass spell they’d been powering to get the Monster here, hold it in place, and drag down its defenses. Quentin had basically been back-up, but he put all the pain and trauma from the past few years into it. He gave more than he knew he had left to give, and now he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

It had been Penny’s responsibility to pop into the Monster’s head and distract him, giving Eliot a greater chance of regaining control. Penny’s eyes are open now, blood running from his nose. 

Julia looks calm as a goddess, holding one of Margo’s spirit bottles, the Monster bound up inside it. 

If it worked. If it worked, it’s bound up inside the bottle. 

Eliot’s body is coughing, hunched over, palms flat on the floor, between Margo and Julia’s side of the circle. Quentin can see his eyes from this angle: When he looks up, it’s a slow ascent: his eyes are heavy, confused, flitting around the room to get his bearings. 

What passes over his face next is a wave of relief so profound, Quentin only recognizes it because it’s exactly what trembling through Quentin right now: a deep breath after drowning, a heart-stopping catch in freefall. 

That’s Eliot. It worked. 

Eliot’s face changes when his eyes adjust and land on Margo. His lips move silently, but Quentin is positive he’s trying to say, _My Bambi._

Margo's axes clatter to the floor behind her.

“Eliot,” she says, dragging herself forward, then dropping to her knees beside his body, her voice thick with all the emotion that Quentin knows she’s been bottling up, just like he has. 

Eliot straightens up on his knees as best he can and falls into her arms. “Margo,” he murmurs, his voice shaking, squeezing his eyes tight. 

When he opens them, his eyes land on Quentin. 

And Quentin—wow. He never knew how he’d react to actually getting this moment. But now that it’s here, a whole piece of himself that’d been cut off slides back into place for the first time since Blackspire. The tension that’s built up and hardened his body these past few months releases like a storm, and he’s smiling for the first time in his whole damn life. 

Whoever said getting what you want isn’t as good as the journey it takes to get there has obviously never gotten Eliot Waugh back in their lives after months of fighting for him. 

“Q,” Eliot whispers over Margo’s shoulder, and it’s just as much of a fucking revelation as when he’d surfaced before, or when they reunited in Eliot’s mind—except this time he’s real, and he’d better fucking be here to stay. 

Quentin’s at his side, kneeling next to Margo, before he even knows what his body is doing. As soon as he lands, Eliot lifts one arm from Margo and wraps it around Quentin, until he’s squeezing all three of them together. 

Quentin holds on. 

“Okay,” Eliot says, his voice a little raspy, pulling back just enough so he has one hand on Margo’s shoulder and one on Quentin’s shoulder. “Important question.” 

Margo and Quentin exchange a look, like, _what horrors do we need to even get into right now._

But Eliot continues. “How have any of you been able to _stand_ being around me?” 

Quentin shakes his head. “The Monster wasn’t you, El. We—“

“Oh sweetie, I know that. I mean, I—I _smell._ Like, absolutely _reek_.” 

“That is the realest shit,” Margo says, a smile softening her face, and Quentin straight up laughs with relief. 

“Here are the things I want, in this order: a glass of water, a shower, and the longest nap. I’m serious, like, wake me up next year. Wait, what year is it?” 

“The same as when you left,” Quentin says. 

“But nowhere near the same month,” Margo adds. 

“Here.” Julia crouches next to Quentin and passes Eliot a glass of water. 

He accepts it from her and takes a long gulp. “Thank you,” he says to Julia, breathless. “You look like you could use one of these, too.” 

“Me? I feel great.” Julia quirks an elusive smile at him. “It’s not often that we get to land a big spell like that. Welcome back.” 

Eliot hands the empty water glass back to her, then puts his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, utterly sincere. 

He looks up at everyone else, and Quentin follows his gaze: Alice, Kady, and Penny have stepped in closer, although Alice is a little ways back, looking uncomfortable and still uncertain of her welcome, even though she’s been instrumental in this. 

“‘bout time you made it out, bro,” Penny says. 

“Thanks to you,” Eliot says, then directly at Alice and Kady, “all of you.” 

Quentin watches Alice square her shoulders and try to smile a little.

Kady turns to Alice. “The Library won’t have missed a power surge like this one.”

Julia gets back up to join them. “We have to act fast.”

Quentin turns back to Eliot and Margo, and leaves the rest of them to it. He’s gotten who he’s been fighting for. 

“About that shower,” Eliot says, then as an afterthought, “Also, where on _earth_ are we?” He turns back to Margo. “We are on Earth, aren’t we?” 

“Does this decor look Fillorian to you, bitch?” Margo says, not looking away from Eliot. She’d almost sound like herself, except for her telltale chin wobble making the words tremble. Eliot gently pinches her chin between his thumb and knuckle, and Margo breathes back the tears.

“This is our safehouse,” Kady cuts in. Quentin sees her look up from whatever the rest of them are poring over on the kitchen island. “I… acquired it,” she adds with a smirk. 

“I’m impressed,” Eliot says. 

“Um,” Quentin says, “I can show you where the bathroom is so you can get cleaned up.” 

He’s aching for Eliot to touch him again or even just look at him—his own hands itching to touch Eliot, assure his body that Eliot is real, that he’s no longer controlled by the Monster—but when Eliot does turn his full attention back on Quentin, it’s overwhelming. 

“Lead the way, Q.” Eliot smiles weakly at him and starts trying to get up. Margo and Quentin each try to grab ahold of him to help. “What the—why am I so weak? Wasn’t I walking around just fine as that thing?” 

“The Monster wasn’t…great to your body,” Quentin tells him, feeling a little weak himself. 

“Ah, hence the godawful hygiene,” Eliot grumbles. 

“And the booze and junk food.” 

“Ugh, no wonder my stomach feels like a roller coaster. Not even like I’m _on_ a roller coaster—it’s like my stomach _is_ the roller coaster.” 

“He comes back from the dead and he thinks he’s poetic as shit now,” Margo says with an eye roll, hauling Eliot’s arm over her shoulder. 

“I won’t make the obvious joke here,” Quentin says, securing the weight of Eliot’s other arm over his shoulder as they all try to stand. 

“Q, if you say ’T. S. Eliot’ right now, I swear to whatever gods give a fuck…” Margo mutters, and Eliot laughs, which makes Quentin laugh, which makes Margo smile, and it’s all so goddamn strange and beautiful, Quentin is vibrating with something close to joy for the first time in too long. 

They leave the burnt out living room with Eliot propped between them. The familiarity of this position is not lost on Quentin, but it’s probably the first time they’re all sober for it. 

“Okay, you two, I’ve got this,” Eliot says when they reach the master bathroom with its glossy turquoise and ivory tiles, unlooping his arms from their shoulders. He turns to them in the doorway and raises an eyebrow. “Neither of you is going to let me out of your sight, are you.” 

“We’re not joining you in the shower, El,” Margo says, but Quentin catches the moment’s hesitation beforehand; knows she’s probably as hesitant as he is, because what if this is an illusion somehow, or what if—

“I’m, uh, right next door,” Quentin says, trying to cut through his thought spiral. He gestures toward his room. “If you need anything.” 

Before he can overthink it, Quentin lunges forward to wrap his arms tightly around Eliot. He doesn’t care that Eliot is still dressed like the Monster, still smells like the Monster; he’s Eliot again, and Quentin has held himself back from holding Eliot for too long. Eliot’s arms rush up around Quentin, holding him just as tightly, one hand coming to rest on the back of Quentin’s head. Quentin tucks his face in Eliot’s collarbone like no time has passed at all. 

Quentin might cry, finally. He’s not having that. “Okay, um,” he says pulling away, and not meeting Eliot’s eyes. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

He darts to his room and collapses on his bed, flinging a hand over his eyes, every sensation in his body hyper-aware of the fact that Eliot is right outside the door. 

Margo and Eliot’s voices murmuring softly in the hallway. Footsteps, then the bathroom door closing. Through the wall, there’s the flush of the toilet, a soft rush of water from the faucet, the snick of cabinets being opened and shut. 

Quentin pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the emotions from overflowing. _He’s back._

There’s a soft knock at his door only a few minutes later. He breathes in, out, to balance himself. 

Eliot’s at the door. His hair is dry, so it’s clear he hasn’t gotten in the shower yet, but there’s only a towel around his waist. 

“Do you have anything I could wear when I’m done? I know we’re not the same size, but I’ll need something to wear that’s not...” He spreads his hands and gestures up and down his body while Quentin gapes at his bare chest. “This, or whatever that trash was the Monster was wearing. Just until I’m able to get my own clothes again.”

“Oh, yeah. Um, of course.” Quentin turns away and hurries to find a belt, some jeans, boxer-briefs, a soft blue button-down. “Sorry, we should have thought of that and brought you some of your own clothes. They’re with Fen back in Fillory, and—“

“Q. Hey.” Eliot tilts a soft smile at him. “You’ve done more than enough.” He rests his hand on top of Quentin’s as he passes off the stack of clothes. “Thank you.” 

Quentin goes completely still—his first instinct whenever the Monster would touch him unexpectedly. He had to just let it happen. Don’t provoke. Don’t show how much it hurts. 

But here, now, Quentin’s breathing picks up not because this isn’t Eliot, but because it _is_ : The warm press of his hand on top of Quentin’s settles something deep and unnamable inside of Quentin. He looks up into Eliot’s eyes, so gentle and so tired, and knows the nightmares will come, but not right now. Right now, Eliot is himself again. 

It’s too much, really. Quentin doesn’t know what to do with how good this feels, his hand tingling at such an innocent touch. 

Eliot parts his lips, looking like he might say something, but Quentin ducks his head and slides his hand away. “Well, uh, I hope the shower helps. Let me know if you need anything else.” 

He peeks back up as he starts to close the door. Eliot’s pressed his lips back together in a small frown. He nods once and turns back to the bathroom. 

Quentin closes the door and sighs, tapping his forehead against it. 

_For every moment of joy, a wake of sadness_ , Quentin thinks, some half-remembered quote from some forgotten book. Well fuck if that isn’t the story of his life and all the rest. 

Eliot’s back, and in the wake of that, so is the pain of Eliot not wanting to be with him, not in the way Quentin aches for. Quentin tries to lose himself in a mosaic, but it comes in fits and starts. Despite the ache he’s feeling right now, for the first time in recent memory, he actually wants to focus more on the present than on memories of a happier life. 

He keeps pausing to listen hard, make sure he can hear the little sounds of Eliot in the next room: the pulse of the faucet, the buzz of an electric razor, the sputter of the shower turning on. Eliot’s right there, on the other side of the wall, but he’s still not as close as Quentin wishes he could be. 

Buttery yellow and teal, pinks and blues—Quentin’s starting to get a handle on tonight’s mosaic, the colors radiating in wobbly concentric circles from the center of the page. Memories of the day their son got married start skipping through his mind—it had been one of those rare days where everything felt easy, even the Mosaic. 

He lets the memory reel him in, even as he’s listening to the white noise of the shower on the other side of the wall, that proof of Eliot closer than he’s been in months. 

 

_They work side by side, sliding tiles to each other as they design from the center outward to the edges, with barely a complaint about aching backs or knees all morning._

_“We’ve still got it,” Eliot says after a long, comfortable silence once they finish._

_“What’s ‘it’ in this scenario?” Quentin’s sitting down in the chair next to the Mosaic to record the pattern with pastels._

_Eliot stands up and stretches, and Quentin can’t help but glance over at him, at the way he still has such languid grace after all these years._

_“Q, we’re gonna be over the hill next year and—” Eliot laughs, a lovely bright sound in the spring air._

_A smile drifts across Quentin’s face. “And?”_

_“No, it’s just—I was going to say that even though I’m getting old, I can still do things like bend over or bend_ you _over without breaking my back.”_

_Quentin feels a little warm at the mere suggestion of sex, so he guesses Eliot has a point—maybe they’ve still got the illusive ‘it’._

_“But then,” Eliot continues, “the phrase ‘over the hill’ made me think of Ari, and how one time I used it, and she looked out past the house, like, ‘Over…which…hill?’” The look on his face is fond and sad, and Quentin feels it mirror his own ache at the mention of Arielle. It’s been almost twenty years at this point, but you never really get over death, do you?_

_“I don’t remember that,” Quentin says, and shares one of his own fond, sad smiles with Eliot._

_“That’s the beauty of us, Q.” Eliot walks behind him and starts rubbing Quentin’s shoulders. “Neither of us has to remember everything on our own. Between the two of us, we’ll remember enough.”_

_Quentin tilts his head back and grins up at him. “You could tell Ted to add that to his wedding vows, you know.”_

_Eliot just grins and gives one of his shoulders a playful smack. He keeps massaging while Quentin turns back to finishing the pastel pattern record._

_“Okay,” he says when he’s done and Eliot’s hands still on his shoulders. “Let’s call it a day and get ready for the festivities.”_

_Quentin trims and shaves his big beard while Eliot gets ready inside._

_Eliot gasps happily, a little dramatically, when Quentin comes inside to change._

_“You still have a face!” he says, sliding his hands up Quentin’s neck and cupping his jaw. His fingers feel tingly against Quentin’s smooth cheeks. Quentin had been growing that beard for a couple years._

_“I still have a face,” Quentin says, voice dry but pleased. “C’mon, this face is going to be late if we don’t get going soon.”_

_Later, after the ceremony—so much like the one Quentin had with Arielle—there’s dancing. Not usually Quentin’s strong suit, but the people he loves have always been able to bring him out of himself in ways he’d never have known otherwise._

_So, the thing is, he likes dancing with Eliot. He has for years now, the quiet fit of their bodies slowing down together. The intimacy of a song shared close together. Today, as dusk starts setting in, Quentin looks up at Eliot while they dance, each of them with an arm slung around the other’s body, with a hand entwined with the other’s hand._

_There are tiny blue and yellow flowers in Eliot’s greying hair, tucked there by their new daughter-in-law’s little cousins, and he looks so beautiful, Quentin can’t help but stand on tiptoe and kiss him._

_The soft, surprised smile that brightens Eliot’s eyes is everything. They’ve been together for decades, they know each other about as well as two people could, and they can still surprise each other._

_“What was that for?” Eliot murmurs._

_“Do I need a reason to kiss you?”_

_“No,” Eliot says, “no, I guess you don’t.”_

_Getting the full force of Eliot’s smile is something Quentin will never tire of, even if they get fifty years, seventy, a hundred. It’s one of those quiet moments where Quentin realizes he’s content, unafraid of the future. It warms him to the core. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing and can’t even hide it behind a beard now._

_“I missed that,” Eliot says, lifting his hand from Quentin’s back to lightly trace the blush of Quentin’s cheeks, down his jaw, his neck, stopping just below his collar. “The way I make you glow. You know I adore you, right?”_

_“I know,” Quentin says, and tiptoes up to kiss him again._

 

Quentin hears the shower turn off, then more puttering about the bathroom. The door hasn’t opened yet. 

He looks down at the pattern he’s drawn in front of him, pretty sure it’s the one they’d made that day of Teddy’s wedding. The memories slip and slide like most memories do. He thinks about each of these drawings, how each one represents a day they spent together, a day in another life that could’ve been their last.

He thinks about how sure he’d felt about them in that life, eventually. How well they had known each other. But even with the people we know best, there are still unknowns: things they don’t talk about, things you don’t talk about. 

Like, what could’ve happened if they actually did solve the puzzle while they were both alive? They worked and they worked toward that goal, and yet they never actually discussed a potential After: What would they choose in a different context? Would they each choose the same thing? 

Well. Quentin found out the answer to that pretty quickly, didn’t he, once they remembered in this life.

He tries to shake off Fillory Before, reminds himself that Eliot is here, _now_ , himself again. He’s still on the other side of that damn wall, taking care of himself, washing away whatever he can. 

Quentin wants to stay awake and spend every possible second making sure he can still sense Eliot’s alive, but the exhaustion of months of fighting for this moment catches up to him. 

He drags himself to his bed and passes out before the bathroom door ever opens. 

________________________________________________________________

The sun’s gone down when Quentin wakes up. Almost dawn, he realizes with a bleary glance at his phone on the nightstand.

Quentin sits up, and two things happen in quick succession: 

1\. His stomach rumbles.  
2\. He remembers that Eliot is back. 

He’s out of bed and in the hallway by the time he realizes he has no idea where Eliot ended up going after he showered. Margo probably put him up in her room. Or maybe Kady found another room for him. This place is definitely charmed to be larger than even the largest New York City apartment. 

The whole apartment is dim and eerily quiet. As he approaches the living room, he sees that somebody has fixed up the window, the ceiling, even the furniture. The spellwork is so good, it’s almost like this afternoon didn’t happen. 

There’s a clank of silverware against a bowl in the kitchen. Quentin’s eyes adjust to the darkness: Eliot is propped on a barstool. His back is facing Quentin, shoulders slightly hunched in the clothes that Quentin had loaned him. 

“Eliot,” Quentin says, quietly, stopping halfway through the living room so Eliot doesn’t feel like he’s sneaking up on him. 

Eliot sits up straight and turns around, his utensil clattering to the bowl. “Oh,” he says, relaxing and turning back around. “Q. What are you doing up?” 

Quentin takes that as invitation enough to join him. “Could say the same thing about you.” He walks over to the fridge. “Thought you said you’d sleep for a year.” 

Eliot snorts. “Easier said than done apparently.” 

Quentin grabs some leftover dumplings and opens up the container to eat them cold. After a moment’s hesitation, he sits down in the seat next to Eliot. Their shoulders don’t brush, their legs don’t touch, but Quentin’s skin is humming with awareness at how close they are. 

He looks down at Eliot’s bowl, then up at Eliot who’s holding a fork and chewing, staring off into the middle distance. “What the—are you eating _pickles and cheerios_?” 

Eliot meets his eyes, and Quentin feels warm to the core. “I am eating pickles. And cheerios,” Eliot replies, his voice incredulous. “Maybe I came back wrong.” 

He says that like an afterthought, half a joke, but Quentin can tell there’s a kernel of genuine worry in there. “You didn’t come back _wrong_ ,” Quentin tells him, needing to believe it himself. “Maybe your taste buds are just screwed up for now. The Monster, it—well, it didn’t really have anything close to a wholesome diet.” 

“So you mentioned.” Eliot puts down the fork and picks up a cheerio between his fingers. He tries to toss it into his mouth, but misses. 

“Did I ever tell you about Alice when she—when she came back?” Quentin watches as Eliot tries with another cheerio, misses. “She could only eat bacon. For, like, a while, I think.” 

Eliot nods, then sighs and puts both hands down on the countertop. “It feels weird, Q.” 

Quentin bites into a dumpling and looks over at him, listening. 

“Time didn’t really exist in the same way in there,” Eliot says, staring at his bowl. “Or maybe it didn’t even exist at all? It was confusing. It felt almost like a dream, how they go on forever, but then you wake up and only a few minutes have gone by.” 

“Or a few months,” Quentin murmurs. 

“Yeah, it’s...a lot hazy now. But I know I never slept in there. Didn’t make sense to. It was like one long, neverending day.” 

“Jesus.” And Quentin thought he knew what exhaustion was.

Eliot nods, then goes on.

“It’s like—time is time again, and I’m me again—or…still.” Eliot’s hands clench on the countertop. “But I’m also in a body that somebody else walked around in for way too long, and I can _feel_ it. I couldn’t feel it when it was happening, but now my body feels like it did before—before we went to Fillory, the first time. Before you crowned me High King.” 

Quentin can’t help the flicker of a smile at that memory, of the way Eliot had looked at him that day, with such gratitude and awe that he was getting a new chance at life. 

“The last time I felt like this, I thought I was going to die,” Eliot says, voice so low Quentin has to strain to hear him, even though they’re right next to each other. 

Quentin’s smile vanishes. He puts his hand on the countertop next to Eliot’s, not touching but making his presence known. “You didn’t die then, and I will _not_ let you die now.” He swallows down the tightness in his throat. “Not after all this. Not for a long, long time.” 

_I’ve watched you die, over and over, and I’m not watching it happen again_ , he thinks. 

_Nothing you save wants to be saved_ , his brain whispers to him. He tells it to shut up. 

Eliot looks over at Quentin. In the pre-dawn dim, he can make out Eliot’s eyes searching his, the small press of a sad smile. His hair is a mess, and his eyes look bloodshot, but he is undeniably Eliot. 

“You know,” Quentin says, breaking eye contact to turn back to his dumplings. He takes a bite, chews, swallows. 

Eliot picks back up his fork, shoveling more pickles and cheerios into his mouth. 

“I know it’s not the same thing, like, at all, since I was only possessed by that lamprey that was after Alice’s family for, like, a day,” Quentin continues, “but I sort of get it.” 

Neither of them looks at the other. They take more bites of their food, chew, swallow. 

“You were stuck in there for months, so yeah, I know it’s not the same, but.” Quentin glances over at Eliot. “I know what it felt like for me, to feel like my body wasn’t my own anymore.” 

He looks down at his hands, half clenched on the countertop. “I, um, I even feel it with my depression sometimes. When it gets really bad, even when I logically know something I should do or believe or—or want, my brain has other ideas: don’t do that, don’t believe that, don’t want that. So, I don’t, and my body doesn’t either, without any further input from me.” 

They’re both quiet for a long while. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. 

“So, how do you do it?” Eliot says, stretching his fingers flat on either side of his bowl. “How do you get back in control of something like that?” 

Quentin moves his hand near Eliot’s again. “Sometimes, I have to fake it, pretend like I’m some version of myself who can get out of bed, or I’ll literally never do anything.” 

Eliot nods. 

“Sometimes,” Quentin says softly, “I talk to a friend who’s ready to listen.” 

Eliot keeps nodding, slowly. 

“And sometimes,” Quentin says even more softly, “it works itself out. In time. Like, I wear down my brain until it’s tired of arguing with me, and I’m okay again, for a while, at least.”

Eliot moves his hand so his pinky presses against Quentin’s thumb, and leaves it there, warm and solid. 

“I know it’s not, like, a direct parallel,” Quentin says, tripping on his words, heart racing. “But—” 

“It helps,” Eliot says, meeting his eyes. “You help.” 

“Oh.” Quentin swallows. “Good.” 

“Thank you.” Eliot’s voice is thick with emotion.

Quentin nods. “It’s gonna be okay, El.”

The small smile Eliot gives him feels like a victory. 

They finish eating as the sun starts to rise, their shoulders pressing together, their knees touching. 

________________________________________________________________

The next couple weeks, true to his word, Eliot does actually sleep a lot. 

Quentin sleeps a lot at first, too, but then he gets off his ass and lets Kady and Alice get him up to speed with what’s going on with the Library and how he can help. These last few years, his purpose had been clear: Kill the Beast. Save Alice. Save Fillory. Save all of magic. Save Eliot. Now that Eliot’s back, he needs a new purpose. 

But it’s difficult. When Eliot is sleeping, Quentin feels restless, itching to go check on him, make sure he’s still there. It’s almost worse when Eliot is walking around, clearly alive and himself. Quentin gets distracted from whatever else he’s doing, hyper-aware of Eliot’s every move: concocting another strange meal from the fridge, taking his third shower of the day, fiddling with little spells, like he’s checking that he’s still capable. 

“Quentin,” Kady says, one afternoon about a week later. 

“Hm?” He’s watching Eliot’s fingers as they twist and twirl a spell to empty the fruit bowl across the room, the fruits all hanging mid-air until he flicks his fingers, and the bowl refills.

Kady sighs impatiently. 

He looks back at her, face warming. “Sorry. What were we—” 

“Forget it. We’re good without you on this one.” She closes the book in her lap. “Please just go bother Eliot already.” 

“What, no, I—” 

“Oh my god, you’re a liability like this.” She gets that thinly-veiled rage look on her face that Quentin’s way too familiar with. “ _Go._ ” 

“Jeez, okay.” Quentin unfolds himself from the sofa and joins Eliot in the kitchen. 

It’s like that most days: sleep, try to help, end up distracted by Eliot instead. They don’t even do anything significant together, and they haven’t had a real talk since that first night, but it’s good. Eliot looks a little more rested, acts a little more like himself, every day. It’s more than Quentin had dared hope for. 

________________________________________________________________

Quentin wakes up late one morning and realizes it’s already been three weeks since they got Eliot back. 

When he steps into the hallway, Margo and Eliot’s voices drift from the kitchen. It sounds like they’re talking about returning to Fillory. 

“...when you're ready,” Margo is saying. “But hopefully soon. Fen and Josh are gonna lose their shit. And don’t even get me started on Rafe and Tick. Those bitches cried so hard when we all thought you were—well. When we thought you weren’t coming back.” 

Quentin walks down the hallway and sees Margo perched on a barstool and Eliot on the opposite side of the kitchen island, leaning forward on his elbows. Neither of them acknowledges Quentin as he approaches, but to be fair he’s kind of intruding and avoiding eye contact in his beeline to the coffee. 

“Aren’t you exiled for all eternity or whatever?” Eliot says to Margo, then comes into Quentin’s periphery as he leans back against the sink, closer to where Quentin is pouring coffee. He reaches out and runs his hand from Quentin’s shoulder to his shoulder blade, like an unexpected _hi there, acknowledging you_ touch. 

For a second, Quentin's body tenses like an instinctual _don't react, it's just the Monster_.

But then he looks at Eliot—who’s looking at Margo with an open, affectionate expression—and Quentin’s body relaxes. He hopes Eliot didn’t notice. 

“Oh please,” Margo is saying. “We’ll figure it out. Fen is High King now.”

“Aw, Fen.” Eliot's face relaxes into a smile. “How is she?” 

“Well, the last time I saw her was when I made her exile me from the kingdom, but you know.” Margo slowly grins back at Eliot in some private way. “Good. She's a good woman, El.” 

“You said it, Bambi. I'm very proud of her.” He turns to Quentin ( _finally_ ). “Hey, Q.”

Eliot looks more and more like himself every day. Last week, Margo took him out for shopping and a haircut, and now there’s nothing of the Monster in his appearance anymore: He’s wearing clothes that fit him and his style, his stubble looks intentional, his eyes are slightly smudged with eyeliner, and his hair is trimmed shorter, curls tumbling over one side of his face, sort of like when Quentin had first met him. He’s _Eliot._

“Hey,” Quentin says, grinning for no reason, and wow, that's an unfamiliar move. 

“Hey,” Eliot says again, a little quieter, dipping his chin to his own shoulder as he looks over at Quentin standing awkwardly next to him with his coffee. 

“H...ey,” Quentin says slowly, grin spreading in his confusion. 

Eliot looks at him and starts grinning too, his whole face brightening. 

“Okay, you two,” Margo says, half unimpressed, half teasing. “Now that we've established that you both know how to greet each other, can we get back to discussing how we’re going to get our fine asses back to FIllory?”

Quentin ducks his head and sips his coffee. In his periphery, he sees Eliot straighten up. “I’m, uh, gonna leave you two to your Fillory logistics,” Quentin mutters, then darts out of there without looking back. 

As soon as he gets back in his room, he slams his coffee down and braces himself against the edge of his desk. His anxiety is throwing a fucking surprise party. Quentin hates parties. 

Eliot’s back, but now here comes the reality of that, the part Quentin had been avoiding thinking about: Eliot is alive, but pretty soon he’s going to go be alive back in Fillory, without Quentin. It’s not like they’re going to drift around this recovery in-between state forever. Kady would probably kick them out eventually anyway. 

Eliot will leave, and Quentin will to need to remember how to move on. 

It’s just that he’s still so tired. For now, he tries to calm himself with the the pastels, which he hasn’t spent a lot of time with since Eliot got back. 

He drags a coral pastel across the page, then dots in deep shades of green, losing himself in the repetitive motions and trying to figure out how to re-order his mind into not worrying about Eliot anymore. 

He stays like that for a good hour or two, page after page. 

“There you are,” Eliot says, breaking the silence by striding into Quentin’s room with such an air of ownership, it’s like he’s been here all along and nothing terrible has happened. 

“Jesus.” Quentin startles and drops the pastel he’d been holding. He turns to face Eliot, his elbow shoving the sketchbook farther behind him on the desk. “Here I am?” 

His heart speeds up as Eliot flops dramatically onto Quentin’s bed, declaring, “I know I’ve slept for like 80% of the time I’ve been back so far, but I could literally still sleep for months, Q. Did this fucker _ever_ sleep?” 

“Honestly, not that we ever saw.” Quentin desperately wants to join Eliot on the bed, just curl up with him and cradle Eliot’s head to his chest. 

“Well,” Eliot says with his old air of nonchalance. “I’ve survived sleep deprivation before.” 

He props himself up against the headboard, stretching his long legs across the rumpled bedspread and crossing his ankles. His feet are bare. His jeans are black. He’s wearing a dark purple button-down and a black vest, and Quentin would be surprised by the amount of effort he’s put in for just lounging around the apartment, except—it’s Eliot. Clothes are a way of feeling like himself again. 

When Quentin meets his eyes, it looks like Eliot is drinking in every detail of Quentin, too, his eyes looking Quentin up and down. 

“Um,” Quentin says, self-consciously, eyes shifting to the side, then back at Eliot. 

“Why is there chalk all over your hands?” Eliot raises an eyebrow. 

“Um,” Quentin repeats, panic rising up in his chest. 

“Q,” Eliot says, amusement creeping in. He kicks his legs over the side of the bed and strides over to Quentin. 

“It’s nothing.” Quentin spins around to close his sketchbook and put away the pastels, but they’re scattered all across the desk. 

Quentin gives up when Eliot snatches up one of the other sketchbooks. He looks at Quentin with a teasing glint in his eyes as he opens it up, but when his eyes land on the pages, Quentin can see the moment Eliot realizes what he’s looking at, his whole face going slack. 

Silence leaps between them, apart from the sporadic sounds of Eliot turning the pages. He walks slowly over to the edge of the bed and sits down, setting the sketchbook in his lap as he keeps flipping through it. 

Quentin runs a hand through his hair and tries to sit up tall and face him, waiting for whatever blow is about to come. They never talk about the Mosaic. It’s too close to talking about the conversation that came afterward. 

Eliot runs his fingers lightly across a few of the pastel drawings. “It feels…so long ago now,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “but also, when I let myself think about it, it’s like it just happened.” He looks up at Quentin. “Or like it…” 

“Like it _is_ happening,” Quentin finishes for him, shaking his head in disbelief, heart beating faster at _when I let myself think about it._ “Which doesn’t make any sense, but—“

“But what does?” Eliot says, half smiling, his eyebrows raised like _what’re ya gonna do—alternate lifetimes, am I right?_

Quentin huffs a laugh and feels his face surprise itself, spreading into the kind of smile only Eliot could evoke through the anxiety. 

Eliot smiles back at him. “So.” 

“So.” 

“You took up a new hobby while I was gone.” 

“I wouldn’t call it a hobby,” Quentin says, standing up, restless with nerves. “More like…” 

“A coping mechanism?” Eliot offers gently.

Quentin presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t turn away from Eliot either. 

“Q.” Eliot closes the sketchbook and sets it on the bed beside him. “I’m okay now.” 

He stands up to face Quentin. “I’m—well, perhaps ‘okay’ isn’t _quite_ right, but it’s close enough.” He stretches his arms up, fingers stretching further, then drops his hands to his sides. “I feel more and more like myself every day. I even ate some totally normal eggs and toast with Margo at that corner diner this morning.” 

Quentin thinks of all the weird food combinations Eliot’s cycled through the past few weeks. “That’s—that’s really good, El. I’m glad you’re not…” Quentin squints up at him and tries to find the words. 

“Totally fucked up still?” Eliot supplies. “Well, from what I’ve been gathering, there’s a lot I missed. Whatever shit the Monster put my body—and you—through, I wasn’t really…paying attention? Yeah, let’s put it that way.” 

Quentin scrunches his eyebrows. “Come again?” 

“I was up here.” Eliot taps on the side of his head. “Like we talked about.” Quentin thinks back on their first night, and understands a little more: the endless days of Eliot in his own mind. “Trust me, there were plenty of horrors to keep me company. But it sounds like you went through way worse out here.” 

Quentin drops his head, his neck tired, his whole fucking soul tired. Some locks of hair drop into his eyes. He can appreciate that they’re finally talking about this, but also, he doesn’t really know how to talk about this yet. “Yeah, the Monster put me through…a lot. I don’t even know how to begin to…” 

He shakes his head, sets his jaw, and looks to the side. All he sees are his pastels and mosaic notebooks. Months of drawings at this point; still far, far short of fifty years. 

“Can I…?” Eliot’s voice sounds hesitant. 

Quentin doesn’t move his head, but he looks out the corner of his eye at Eliot, his hand raised mid-air toward Quentin’s face. He realizes Eliot must’ve noticed the times when Quentin has stilled at his touch, barely resisting flinching back. 

“God.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I wish you would.”

And then Eliot is touching him, his hand sliding Quentin’s hair out of his eyes, palming the side of his head, coming to rest on his cheek, and it’s…it’s nothing like when the Monster touched him in Eliot’s body before. It’s hesitant and tender, and Quentin is fucking trembling, leaning into his hand, eyes squeezed shut against the rush of emotion. 

“Q. I can’t even begin to imagine what I did to you. I can understand if—“

Quentin’s eyes snap open to look at Eliot straight on. “The Monster wasn’t you.” 

“I’m under no misconceptions about what I did or didn’t do, Quentin, but—“ He scrunches his face for a moment in frustration. “It looked like me. I mean, me with _horrible_ taste in clothes and hygiene, but…for all intents and purposes it was me, so—“

“No.” Quentin reaches up a hand to hold Eliot’s hand in place on his cheek, then steps forward to press his other hand to Eliot’s chest. “No, you don’t get it: It. Was. Not. You. It looked like you on the surface, just enough that sometimes I could forget for half a second, but then it’d move or do or say anything and it was so _not you_ , that I—“

“Okay, shh, not me, I got you, Q.” Eliot’s eyes are frantic as he pulls Quentin against his chest, arms around Quentin’s shoulders. 

Quentin burrows his face into Eliot’s collarbone, his old favorite spot that feels like home, and he’s—wow. He’s crying. For the first time since all of this started. Eliot holds him closer, Quentin’s head tucked under his chin. 

“I don’t know why people say crying is cathartic,” Quentin mutters as the tears subside. “This still feels like crap.” He laughs a little at that though, and hears Eliot’s soft little huff of laughter above him. 

“Fuck.” Eliot says, sounding overcome. “I missed you so much.”

“That’s my line,” Quentin says, raising his head to look up at him, half a grin slashed across his face. “You’ve gotta know, El.” He uses his sleeve to swipe at the tears on his face. “Everything the Monster put me through, I’d do it all again if it meant getting you back.” 

Eliot’s whole face goes soft. “My brave, generous Q.” 

Abruptly, Eliot’s whole face falls. 

“Fuck.” Eliot takes his his hands off Quentin and runs them through his own hair, curls flopping around helplessly. 

“What?” Quentin steps back. “What’s wrong?” 

“I was,” Eliot says quickly, shutting his eyes like it hurts to say and he’s just pulling the words off as fast as possible. 

Quentin doesn’t move, his chest tightening in anxiety. “You were what?” 

“Wrong. I was—“ Eliot swallows, then opens his eyes. “I wasn’t honest with you. Before.”

Quentin gets tunnel vision, his heart thudding in his ears. “Before?” 

“Back when we returned from the Mosaic.” 

Quentin still can’t move. He feels like he can’t even breathe. He just stares, lips parted. 

“Fuck.” Eliot closes his eyes again, and starts to pace. “I told myself I’d be braver. Like you. But that’s been a lot harder than I thought it’d be, out here in the real world.” 

Eliot stops pacing and turns back to Quentin. “The thing is.” He stops, then takes a quick breath. “We’ve always had a choice, Q. And I’ve always, _always_ wanted to choose you.”

Quentin feels a free-fall loss of breath, a hiccup punch of hope. It feels like when Eliot had snuck to the surface for a few seconds, before they got him back—when he’d wielded _peaches and plums, motherfucker_ like a vow, and Quentin’s whole world went _upsy-daisy don’t call me Daisy_ —but he honestly never expected _this._

All he can manage is a breathless, “ _What_?”

“I’m trying to tell you,” Eliot says, swallowing, looking Quentin in the eyes, “that I’m in love with you.”

 

( _“I’m in love with you,” Eliot murmurs to him, only days after Arielle’s died. He’s curled up with Quentin and Ted, who’s sleeping between them under the quilt._

_“I know,” Quentin says. “Of course you are. Of course we are.”_

_“I never say it though. I’ve never—not to you or to Arielle. I should have said it at all. I should say it more.”_

_“We knew, El. I know.”_ )

 

“I didn’t know,” Quentin says, because it’s true—now, here, on this world where he met this man he’s only known a few years, not fifty, which is both true and not at all. 

“I didn’t want you to know,” Eliot says, sounding disgusted with himself. 

“Why the fuck not?” Anger starts to rise up, the anger Quentin usually tries to forget is there: anger at Eliot for turning him down, at Eliot for trying to save Quentin’s life at the cost of his own, at Eliot for planning to leave him soon, again, back to Fillory he goes like Quentin doesn’t actually matter after all. “Eliot, _why_?” 

“Because, I—“ Eliot shakes his head. “Because if you didn’t know, then you wouldn’t know how much more I’d _fuck_ this up if we actually gave us a shot.” He doesn’t look away from Quentin. “Because I run from things I won’t survive fucking up—and I couldn’t run away from the possibility of a relationship with you fast enough.”

The anger recedes in Quentin as quickly as it’d come. “Eliot,” he says softly. 

Eliot gestures at the pastels and notebooks. “What if being with me isn’t as good as you remember?” 

Quentin tilts his chin up defiantly. “What if it’s even better?”

Eliot’s eyes are wet as they search Quentin’s. 

“Look—that life?” Quentin says, voice trembling, his whole body in awe of getting a second chance at this. “It was idyllic. It was a home that we are never getting back. But we’re so much more than just those memories. You have to believe that we are.” His eyes land on the notebook Eliot set on the bed, thinks of how much he lost himself in those memories to avoid reality while Eliot was gone. “I need to remember that, too.” 

Eliot steps closer and tilts his forehead down against Quentin’s, one of his hands coming to a rest on the back of Quentin’s neck. Quentin sighs and stretches up on tiptoe to meet him halfway, pressing closer, wrapping his arms around Eliot again. 

“Okay, Q,” Eliot murmurs. “I’ll believe it.”

Quentin can feel him breathing, the warm fog of it against his lips. 

“I think I get it now,” Eliot continues. “Neither of us knows how much more time we’ll have together—fifty days or another fifty years. Why waste any of it?” 

Quentin’s hot all over: that breath, the pressure of Eliot’s hand on the back of his neck, the heat of Eliot’s back beneath his hand. “El,” he manages. “I don’t think there’s any version of me who doesn’t love you, I don’t think it’s possible not to—“

Eliot tilts his chin up and catches Quentin’s lips with his own. 

Their tongues slide against each other, and it’s all Quentin can do to hold on, hands raising to frame Eliot’s face, desperately trying to get even closer. 

They are both older and younger than their other firsts—older than The Threesome That Shall Not Be Named, younger than their first kiss in Fillory Before—and Quentin wonders if this is it; if this is their last first kiss. 

He presses closer and savors it.

“Be with me, Q,” Eliot murmurs, breathless, as Quentin starts kissing his neck.

“I’m right here,” Quentin says, backing him onto the bed. 

Eliot smirks as his thighs meet the edge of the mattress. He sits down and wraps his hands around Quentin’s hips, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. “I mean,” he says, looking up at Quentin. “ _Be_ with me.”

Quentin’s getting hard with Eliot’s face at that angle, looking up at him with mischievous eyes. “So _touch_ me,” he says, lightly placing a hand on the back of Eliot’s head. No pressure, but a presence clear with intent. 

Eliot lets out a small, soft groan. “I can’t believe I’m saying this instead of getting your cock in my mouth right now, but—that’s not what I’m asking you.” Eliot nuzzles his face against the front of Quentin’s jeans, then looks back up at him. “I’m trying to confirm if you still want to give us a shot.” 

Quentin doesn’t have a lot of reference points for feeling happy. Not in this lifetime, anyway. So it takes him a second to recognize that that’s what this feeling is, the lightness filling his body alongside the lust. 

“Are you sure?” Quentin asks, heart beating hard as he looks down at Eliot’s terrified, hopeful face. “I need you to be sure.” 

“Q, I am so turned on right now I’m going to explode from the effort it’s taking not to unzip your jeans and suck your cock right now, so _yes_ , me taking the time to make sure we do this right means I’m sure.”

Quentin bites his lip and runs his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “What about Fillory?”

“Come back with me. I want you there.” His hands tighten on Quentin’s hips, but his voice is low and earnest in contrast to his obvious sexual frustration. “Fillory is still my home. But so are you.”

Quentin thinks of his time in present day Fillory, how it’d mostly been not what he’d hoped, mistake after mistake, disappointment in the wake of every fanboy moment. But then he thinks about being with Eliot, and how that could change everything, like it had in Fillory Before—and there’s no further debate in his mind. 

“Yes,” Quentin says, feeling his eyes crinkling and his cheeks tugging upward. “Show me what I’ve been missing.” 

Eliot lights up just as brightly. “Good.” He reaches up for Quentin’s face. “Now get the fuck down here.” 

Quentin laughs and tumbles onto the bed with him, their mouths meeting on the way down. Quentin drags his teeth over either side of Eliot’s lower lip. Eliot moans and rolls Quentin onto his back. He straddles his thighs and kisses him deeply. 

“You know, while we’re being honest,” Eliot says. He pulls back to brace his hands on Quentin’s shoulders and lift himself up, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Quentin’s thighs. 

“Hm?” Quentin’s trying to chase the way his skin hums when Eliot kisses him, but props himself up on his elbows to follow whatever Eliot is doing now. 

“I have to warn you,” Eliot says, while he works open the belt, button, zipper of Quentin’s pants. “I’m not sure my body is actually capable of the spectacularly thorough fucking we both deserve right now.” 

Quentin gasps for air, falling back against the bed as Eliot takes his cock into his hand and immediately starts stroking. 

“Fuck. That’s—I don’t expect anything you’re not up for.” Quentin meets his eyes. Eliot looks smug about having Quentin splayed out in front of him like this: breathing shallowly, aching in his hand. 

“But it sounds like your mouth still works,” Quentin adds, just to see that smug look replaced with pure desire. “So. If you’re still up for _that_...” 

Eliot’s mouth is on his cock before Quentin can even take another breath, knocking the wind out of him. Quentin spreads his hands through Eliot’s soft curls, feeling desperate and overwhelmed but, for once, in the best ways. 

“I’m not going to last long at all, El,” he says, breathing heavily. 

Eliot looks up at him and pulls just far enough off his cock so that only the head is still cradled between his lips. His tongue laps at it a few times, eyes not leaving Quentin’s. 

Quentin’s trembling, grasping fistfuls of Eliot’s hair. 

And then Eliot takes him in deep, eyes closing in pleasure, sucking hard, and Quentin loses it, coming like he’d forgotten what a good orgasm even feels like. 

When he comes down from it, Eliot has collapsed next to him, watching Quentin with an expression Quentin can only place as _affectionate lust._

Quentin rolls onto his side and kisses him. 

“I won’t last long either,” Eliot whispers. 

“I don’t care,” Quentin whispers back. “This is only the first time.” 

Eliot grins. “The idea of ‘first’ is being used _very_ loosely here.” 

Quentin grins back at him, one hand working the opening to Eliot’s pants. “Do you want my mouth on you right now, or don’t you?” 

Eliot makes a happy little gasp, eyes fluttering closed, as Quentin’s hand wraps around his cock. “I’m not opposed to it.” Quentin can tell he’s trying to be casual, but literally everything else gives him away: the way his body is curving toward Quentin’s, his stuttering breaths, the way he looks at Quentin when he opens his eyes, like he can’t believe they’re here right now. 

Quentin sits up and takes Eliot’s cock into his mouth, feeling a thrill at the fullness of it, at the even happier sounds Eliot is making above him. Eliot’s fingers comb back Quentin’s hair, and Quentin looks up at him as he sucks in long slow strokes. 

“This is _agony_ , Q.” Eliot groans, throwing his head back against a pillow. One of his hands trails down from Quentin’s head to press his fingers into the muscles of Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin wonders if he consciously meant to touch Quentin on his one shoulder that can feel, instead of his wooden one. 

He picks up the pace and, true to his word, Eliot doesn’t last long, practically pulling out Quentin’s hair when he comes, pulsing against Quentin’s tongue. 

Quentin falls back down on the bed while Eliot is catching his breath, watching as Quentin settles beside him. “I can’t believe we get to do that again,” Eliot says. 

Quentin smirks, then swallows, licking his lips, delighting in the way that makes Eliot’s eyes glaze over. 

“Yeah, I could get used to this,” Quentin says, voice a little rough. 

“I hate you,” Eliot says, his own smirk spreading across his face. 

“So I guess it’s a good thing that you also love me?” Quentin can’t help himself, testing to see if this is something he can trust in now, joy rising through his body again.

Eliot’s whole face softens. “Yeah,” he says, resting a hand on Quentin’s smiling face to pull him closer. “It’s a really good thing I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have only two regrets:  
> \- This fic didn't make it back to Fillory, so we didn't get to see Fen reunite with Eliot.  
> \- Josh Hoberman couldn't make an appearance to bake everyone Thank the Gods We Didn't Die Muffins. Sigh. Let's all imagine it together now. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come talk with me over [here](http://dalek-in-heels.tumblr.com/) on ye olde tumblr anytime.


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